Crossroads
by Mislav
Summary: Sort of a Halloweeny case!fic. BAU has to investigate the case of three serial killers active at the same time, in the small, creepy American town with a disturbingly high crime-rate. Big thanks to Marcus Gaudry for encouragement and help!
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I don't own any of the "Criminal Minds" characters and I am not making any money from writing this.**

 **Please forgive any minor spelling or grammar mistakes, English is not my native language.**

 **First of all, big thanks to Marcus Gaudry for encouraging me to pursue this story, and for providing some really helpful advice-and write-ups. The part where Garcia provides basic info about the town was written by him; and he also came up with the town's name. You're the best! Check out his case!fics, they are great.**

 **This is kind of my Halloween-themed Criminal Minds fanfiction. I found it fitting to have the BAU investigate especially creepy, complicated and even somewhat creepy case on Halloween-well, days approaching Halloween. The town featured in this story, "Crossroads", is fictional. (Think of it as a much smaller version of the unnamed crime-ridden city in "Se7en", or a non-supernatural version of Sunnydale.) Yes, it is meant to be over the top, and even tragicomical at times. I will do my best to complete this story by Halloween; but I can't make any promises.**

Moonlight shone over the smal convenience store in Elm Street; one of the few successful businesses in Crossroads. Brenda, 16-year-old cashier, looked up from the magazine she was reading, alerted by something that sounded like a gunshot. She stared through the door for several moments, listening attentively as she did, but she didn't see anything suspicious, and she soon noticed a black Volvo pull up and drive down the street, past the store she was working at. Another false alarm; just an exhaust backfiring. If only those false alarms were more common than the real deal.

Brenda flinched once again, as someone ran over to her. But she sighed in relief a moment later, realizing that was no other than her boyfriend, Mike; also the employee at the store, and the only one present there at the time. Mike looked her over, making sure that she was all right, before looking around, pulling a switchblade out of his pocket. "What was that?" he whispered, his eyes wide, his forehead coated with sweat.

"Mike, it was just an exhaust backfiring," Brenda assured him, fighting an urge to roll her eyes. She sighed and pouted, leaning back in her seat. "God, why are we even doing this? What is the point of running a 24/7 store in this godforsaken town? Let alone working a nigjht shift at it, for a minimal wage? The only "customer" we can have at this hour is an armed robber, serial rapist, serial killer, or all three."

"You mean, one criminal who happens to be all three, or three different criminals raiding this store at the same time?" Mike teased her, raising his eyebrows.

Brenda groaned. "I'm serious," she maintained, glaring at him. "Everyone knows that around here, decent people don't leave their homes pass seven pm."

"Implying that there are decent people in this town. Other than you and me, I mean," Mike commented, before tapping Brenda on the head and missing with her hair. "How cute. Always an optimist."

They both flinched at the sound of the bell placed above the door, quickly turning in the direction of the sound. They saw a tall, bulky man, about thirty five years old, dressed in red T-shirt and scuffed jeans, entered the store. He briefly glared at them, a grim look on his face, his fists clenched. Mike and Brenda assumed that he was a trucker, because they had heard what sounded like a large vehicle pulling up close to the store. He seemed... angry. And both of them knew that the truckers usually only stopped at truck stops and gas stations. Not some convenience store. Especially in this town, where even pulling up at the gas station in broad daylight could easily be the death sentence. They observed him intently, doing their best not to show any fear. Eventually, he made his way further down the store, and disappeared between the shelves, barely even paying attention to them. Both Mike and Brenda sighed in relief, their pulse slowly returning to normal.

"God..." Brenda muttered, a nervous smile playing on her lips.

"Hey, no reason to worry," Mike said, grinning at her. "If that guy had tried anything, I would have kicked hid ass."

"Not so loud, please," Brenda told him, looking around. She sighed, running a hand through her hair. "God... I hate this town."

"Who doesn't?" Mike agreed more than asked, suddenly serious. "But we just have to wait..."

"And stay alive," Brenda added, cringing as she did.

"...Yeah, that too," Mike agreed, nodding his head. "But once we finally save enough money, we can leave and never come back," he said under his breath, moving a bit closer to Brenda, his face flushed, his eyes wide with sudden excitement.

Brenda scoffed, though she felt herself blush. "Yeah... and when will that be?" she commented more than asked, staring blankly at the dirty streets and abandoned buildings outside.

"It doesn't have to be a lot, just enough for a ticket and some cheap place to stay," Mike assured her, sounding strangely opimistic. "Then we can finally move somewhere safer, nicer. Like Detroit, for example. Or East St. Louis."

Brenda turned to face him, nearly jumping from her seat. Mike just stared back at her, smiling mischievously. In the next moment, they both burst out laughing.

Just when they stopped laughing, they heard a loud noise coming from near by. They both flinched, with Brenda gasping silently, before realizing that the trucker had returned, and placed a beer crate on the counter; quite loudly. Upon realizing what was going on, Brenda swallowed a lump in her throat and rushed to charge him.

"You know, it isn't really... safe to leave your vehicle parked out here, unattended, at night. Even if it is locked, with a car alarm and all," Mike warned him, almost instinctively. He flinched, immediately regretting his intrusion, but it was too late.

The trucker glared at him. "You don't say," he scoffed.

Mike gulped, rushing to explain his concern in detail, despite all the instincts telling him to stay quiet. "Well, you know, typical things..." he started, desperately trying to come up with the right words. "Some guy may walk by, see it and decided to loot the car... or the truck, whatever... or some other guy sees it and decides to steal the whole... vehicle... or two guys try stealing the truck at the same time and end up killing each other over it, then the third one comes along, steals the truck and flees, and then when you're out looking for your truck, a few other guys jump you, bludgeon you, stab you, point a gun to your head, steal your wallet, watch... or a kidney..."

"I'm fine, thank you," the trucker replied, gritting his teeth.

"You probably shouldn't be, you know... consuming this while driving," Brenda said, trying to sound as polite and well-intended as possible. "Just saying."

The trucker glared at her, grimacing. "Screw you."

After the quick trip to the convenience store, Jeremy quickly made his way back to his truck, that was parked on the vast parking lot, two blocks away from the store. It was still there. Just in case, he leaned over and took a good look at the back seat. It was definitely empty. He sighed, put the beer crate down, quickly removed the wheel locks from both front tires, unlocked the truck door, picked up the beer cart, and jumped inside. He placed the crate on the passenger seat, pulled out a bottle, opened it with his teeth, spat the cap aside, and immediately chugged down half of it. Screw those kids. And the cops. The beer would always help him stay awake during the long night rides.

He was driving relatively slowly, taking a sip of beer every now and then, doing his best to pay close attention to the road, and his surroundings. He couldn't drive fast in that town: most of the roads were bumpy, street signs were old and damaged more often than not, plenty of street lights had been busted, and there was always a possibility that some nutjob high on drugs (or just some idiot running away from the cops) would run in front of your vehicle. Crossroads. Jeremy knew the whole town pretty well, but some parts were always... remarkable. So many abandoned buildings and houses, not to mention abandoned factories, looking like a bomb had gone off inside. Some sort of a cross or memoriam on almost every street corner. Homeless people sleeping in alleyways and on street corners. (Some of them were probably dead.) Bunch of graffittis on pretty much every building... even suburban homes. If there ever was a place that deserved to be burned to the ground...

After about forty minutes, Jeremy felt a need to relieve himself. Fortunately, his GPS showed that there was a truck stop restroom located just down the road, half a mile away. He sighed in relief upon reaching it. There were no other trucks parked out front, though the lights inside were clearly on. He pulled over and quickly exited the truck, locking the doors behind. He took a good look around before heading into the restroom. Nobody appeared to be close by, and there was nothing suspicious around... but Jeremy still felt unease. Of course, almost anyone felt like that when being outside at night, in Crossroads... but that time was different somehow. It was like the lights on inside the restroom really set off his alarm bells, for some reason.

Jeremy walked inside the restroom, made two steps forward... and stopped in his tracks upon seeing a dead body lying on the floor.

Jeremy gasped and jumped in place. He quickly looked around, immediately pulling a switchblade out of his pocket, then rushed outside and toward his truck, carefully inspecting the area as he did. Not a soul, not a sound. The killer was definitely no longer there. He stopped and took a deep breath, taking a few moments to calm himself down before going back inside the restroom.

Jeremy slowly made his way back to the body, his stomach in knots, cold sweat covering his forehead and back, his heart still thundering against his chest. The victim was a young African American woman. Her nude body was covered with bruises and stab wounds, especially the face and chest area. Jeremy leaned over and checked his pulse. There was none. And her skin was cold. Just like he had expected.

Jeremy sighed, before pulling out his phone and glancing at the screen. Luckily, there was phone reception there. "Not again..." he muttered as he dialed 911.

#

Four days later, BAU found themselves with a busy day ahead of them. Early that morning, everyone was sitting at the round table, already flipping through the latest case file (well, files) on their tablets. Well, everyone but Penelope Garcia, who was standing next to the screen, a remote in her hand, and Spencer Reid, who was standing right next to her, an excited but also concerned look on his face.

"Let me introduce you guys to Crossroads, Indiana," Garcia exclaimed as she clicked on the remote, maps and panorama shots appearing on the screen. "The locals of Crossroads, Indiana, located on the Eastern bank of the Wabash River, like to think of themselves and their town as the cousin of Perrysville, which is on the Western Bank. In reality, however, Crossroads is little more than a wide space in the road on State Road 32, that serves predominantely as a Truck Stop for delivery drivers within the Mid-Westerns State of Illinois, Indiana, Ohio, Nebraska and Kentucky."

"Ah, Crossroads," Rossi remarked, sighing heavily as he started flipping through the case file. "The place where the notorious 2007 Crossroads massacre took place."

"Not to be mistaken with the original 2007 Crossroads massacre, that took place in January the same year, but was a completely unrelated crime," Spencer clarified, though that information even made him shiver.

"And with that, I shall hand the torch to the good doctor, who has expressed desire to present this case to you," Garcia exclaimed, handing the remote to Reid.

"I've studied that town for years," Reid remarked, giving Penelope a grateful smile.

"However, I will stay here to make sure everything goes... alright," Penelope declared, glaring at the remote in Spencer's hand as she sat down.

"This place consistently ranks as one of the highest murder rates per capita in the USA, for over two decades," Spencer explained. "it has been mentioned on almost every FBI briefing meeting at least once; it has been a subject of several true-crime books and documentaries... I'm actually surprised we haven't been called in sooner. Really fascinating case study. There have been two true-crime books written about the town itself, and three about the particular cases from it."

"I guess we can be looking at three new books soon," Rossi commented.

"Murder is almost an everyday occurrence in that town, and they... haven't had lots of positive experiences with the FBI," Emily explained. "But the local police department had pretty much no choice but to call us in by this point."

"On June 11th 2018, 17-year-old Lisa Monroy had her throat slit in an alleyway," Spencer started, clicking on the remote, as Penelope observed him carefully, sighing in relief once everything turned out alright. Several crime scene photographs immediately popped up on the screen. "Her body was discovered the next morning, by the waste collectors. The killer had put it in a nearby dumpster and covered it with trash."

"The investigation revealed she was a high-risk victim; a runaway and a prostitute," JJ read, sadness evident in her voice.

"Little over a month later, on July 15th, twenty five years old Shanna Ketchum, African American, was bludgeoned and garroted to death in an alleyway," Spencer continued, clicking at the remote again. Anothet set of crime scene photpgraphs, showing a completely different woman, appeared on the screen. "Long criminal record for prostitution, grand larceny and drug possession. No effort to delay the discovery of the body."

"No apparent connection between the victims... other than their "profession"," Luke remarked.

"On August 30th, 30-year-old Maggie Brenner, Caucasian, also a prostitute, was found bludgeoned to death in an alleyway," Spencer stated, as a new set of crime scene photographs appeared on the screen, only to soon be replaced with a different set. "On October 10th, Johnny Gould, Caucasian, 19-year-old male prostitute, was found bludgeoned to death in a local park."

"Heavy, blunt object," Tara read. "Most likely a hammer, possibly a crowbar."

"And on October 22nd, five days ago, 22-year-old African American prostitute, Natalie Jones, was found bludgeoned to death in a truckstop bathroom," Spencer concluded, letting out a heavy sigh.

"A definite pattern," David noted. "All the victims were prostitutes, most of them bludgeoned to death and left on public places. The first two murders are different, but that is not uncommon. When committing their first murder, most of the unsubs are nervous, sloppy, they just want to get it over with and flee. They often feel disgust or remorse afterwards, or simply panic, and try to cover up their crime. Then they grow bolder, but they often still experiment, trying to find themselves. By the third murder, the unsub has established his M.O.; bludgeoning, attacking and leaving the victims on public locations, late at night. Leaving the latest victim in a truck stop restroom could mean that he is escalating. Of course, maybe that, too, was a pick-up spot."

"He is murdering both male and female prostitutes," Luke noted. "He could be bisexual. Or brutally murdering his victims, male or female, is simply what gets him off."

"No evidence of sexual assault on any of the victims," JJ read. "He could suffer from erectile dysfunction. That could explain all this rage."

"Or he is simply an opportunistic sexual sadist," Luke countered.

"The unsub might not be sexually motivated," Tara suggested. "He could be a moral vigilante. A "house cleaner". That would explain why is he murdering both male and female prostitutes, and why is he leaving the bodies on public locations, without any attempt to hide them. He could be sending a message. And a warning."

"Which, sadly, is probably why this isn't the only series of murders currently happening in Crossroads," Spencer informed them, a grim look on his face. "On September 28th 2018, 40-year-old Robert West, a local trucker, was found shot to death downtown, near an abandoned steel mill. The killer used a .45 caliber gun. Multiple gunshot wounds, mostly to the head and chest. Robert's truck was left at the scene, with the cargo intact, but robbery hasn't been ruled out as the motive. His wallet and watch were missing, as well as the car radio."

Spencer sighed before clicking at the remote again, a different set of crime scene photographs appearing on the screen. "On October 10th, 30-year-old old Michael Gray, also a trucker, Caucasian, was found shot to death near an abandoned chocolate factory. Once again, truck and cargo were left intact, but smaller valuables were missing, including Michael's wedding ring. Ballistics proved that the same gun was used to murder Robert West two weeks prior. No match in IBIS."

Another click; a new set of crime scene photographs. "On October 18th, 30-year-old old truck driver named James Miller, African American, was found shot to death near an inactive coal mine. .45 caliber gun was used. The same one."

And, immediately afterwards, information about one more victim. "And on October 25th, two days ago, 28-years-old Joe Hill, a truck driver, Caucasian, was found shot to death near an abandoned car parts factory. Ballistic analysis came back as a match. The same gun used to commit the previous three murders," Spencer concluded, sounding both intrigued and quite worried, almost creeped out, at the same time.

"In all four cases, the victims had also been pistol whipped and shot in the knees or hands, indicating torture," JJ read, frowning. "And all four victims were found completely naked, but the autopsy revealed no evidence of sexual assault, or a recent sexual activity in general."

"Removing their clothes could be a forensic countermeasure," Matt suggested.

"Or an intimidation tactic, if the unsub makes them undress before torturing them and killing them," Rossi countered. "Makes them feel exposed, more vulnerable, and even less likely to try to flee or fight back."

"The motive seems less clear with these murders," Tara pointed out, frowning. "The murders don't appear to be sexually motivated. Some valuables are stolen, but I'm not sure is that reason enough for four brutal murders. The victims could be surrogates for someone."

"Or maybe the unsub has something against the truckers, or the trucking industry in general," Matt suggested.

"Maybe, though it is hard to see why," Emily commented. "Truckers are the main sources of income in that town. And they sure need any profit that they can get."

"All four victims were killed while on their route, not while driving back," JJ noted. "But even though the unsub stole their wallets and watches, as well as car radios, the cargo was always left behind."

"The first victim was transporting furniture," Matt read, frowning. "The second was transporting fruits and vegetables. The third victim was transporting various kitchen appliances. The fourth victim was transporting various car parts and tools."

"Maybe the unsub simply doesn't have access to the vehicle necessary to transport all those valuables, and he knows that stealing the whole truck would be too risky, too noticeable," Luke suggested. "Especially since they are all equipped with GPS."

"In that town, it would be more difficult to find someone who owns the car," Emily commented. "Legally."

"To say that they have their share of troubles would be an understatement of a century," Spencer agreed. "Which leads us to the third current series of murders taking place there..."

Rossi groaned, leaning back in his seat. "You gotta be kidding me," he commented, rubbing his forehead.

Spencer rushed to summatrize the third case to the team, clicking on the remote every ten seconds, as Garcia carefully observed the device in his hand, a worried look on her face. "Timothy Lehane, 50, Caucasian, homeless man, shot to death in an alleyway on September 5th," Spencer started, both excitement and worry evident in his voice. "Veronica Johnson, 25, Caucasian, cashier, shot to death on September 22nd, in front of the mall she worked at, while she was out on a smoke break. Tracy Jeffries, 27, African American, a prostitute, shot to death while exiting the apartment building she lived in, on October 5th. Peter Monroe, 16, Caucasian, a High school student, shot to death while entering school grounds, on October 17th. And Michael Davis, 30, African American, security guard shot to death in front of the city hospital he worked at on October 24th, three days ago. All victims were shot in drive-by shootings, with a high-powered hunting rifle."

"Victims of varying age, sex and ethnicities, shot to death on public locations, sometimes in a drive-by shooting, no evidence of torture or sexual assault, no apparent financial gain derived from the murders, no apparent connection between the victims, all the attacks have taken place early in the morning or the afternoon... it all points to the thrill kill," Emily concluded, a worried expression on her face.

"He managed to murder all of them in a drive-by shooting, and he seems to aim for the head and neck," Spencer pointed out. "Kill-shots. He is definitely methodical and experienced."

"And the ballistic analysis showed that CZ-550 American Safari Magnum was used in all five murders," Rossi read. "No match in IBIS. We should look into local hunters, as well as go to the local shooting ranges and ask around, see if someone have been practicing a lot recently."

"According to the witness statements, and two of the viable security footages, red Sedan was used in shootings #1 and #4, while a dark-blue SUV was used in the shootings #2, #3 and #5," JJ read, frowning. "Both cars had tinted windows, so there is no clear recording of the driver's face. Both license plates numbers were recorded, and they were both traces back to the cars that had been impounded to the junkyard years ago."

"Somebody who owns two different vehicles," Tara noted. "There can't be many of such people in that town, I'd bet."

"Owns, or has an access to," Spencer remarked. "Car theft is extremely common there... as well as pretty much any other kind of crime. Though we should also look into people who work in car repair shops and car hire companies."

"Two serial killers active in the same city or town at the same time is rare, but not unheard of," Matt pointed out, shifting in his seat. "We recently worked on a case like that in Detroit. Three though... that is pretty extreme."

"As of 2016, their average murder rate in "Crossroads" has been three per week," Spencer explained. "And now, with three serial killers active in the town at the same time, that is probably on an all-time rise."

"The last thing they need," Rossi commented.

"This whole town is creepy as hell," JJ noted. "Has been for years, from what I've heard."

"According to about 90 percent of online comments about that town, "Crossroads" makes Gary, Indiana look like a Mayberry," Rossi clarified.

"Yikes," Tara remarked, shuddering.

"Honestly, I doubt that place was ever nice," Luke said.

"Back in 2005, the town's population was 25000," Spencer pointed out. "At the 2010 consensues, it was 19000. As of 2016, it was 14000 estimated. Probably even lower now."

"Most of permanent residents don't leave their homes pass seven pm, from what I've heard," Emily added.

"Do they have security cameras?" Tara wondered. "At every corner, preferrably?"

"They are still working on that," Spencer explained, a solemn look on his face. "Most of the cameras get smashed beyond repair within days of being put up, or even stolen, and the town's budget is, well, almost non-existent by this point, so..."

"Their major herself recently stated that, if depression and misery had a capital, "Crossroads" would be it," Emily revealed.

"The only unsolved school shooting in the US history took place there, back in 2010," Spencer pointed out, still eager to discuss the town's bizarre-and violent-history. "Ten students and staff murdered, twenty wounded. In 2012, a group of centrist extemists planned to poison the town's drinking water with cyanide, but they were all murdered in an unrelated home invasion/robbery gone wrong, before they could carry out the attack. While processing the crime scene, the detectives found ten barrels full of cyanide hidden in the basement, as well as information about the town's water system on the victim's laptops, and a 200-page long manifesto detailing their ideology, as well as the terrorist plot."

"Radical centrism is a thing?" JJ asked, frowning.

"It is in Crossroads," Spencer answered, wincing. "Well, it was..."

"I have a friend who had the misfortune of driving through that town three years ago," Luke revealed, grimacing. "At one point, he was in his car, waiting at the train crossing for some big, long train to pass, so he could continue driving down the road, and there were several other cars behind him. He was bored, looking at the rear view mirror and stuff, and he saw several thugs walk over to one of the cars parked behind him, at the end of the line. A family of four was inside. The thugs forced open the car door, beat up everyone inside, beat them to a bloody pulp, and stole everything from the victims and from inside the car. Watches, wallets, car radio, all. Then they moved on to the second car and did the same, moving towards the end of the line, towards my friend. And, of course, the train was driving really slow and was, like, terrifying long. Well, terrifyingly in that context. My friend tried calling 911, but there was no phone signal. It could have been a coincidence, but I think the thugs used some sort of device to jam the signal. Luckily, just when the thugs were about to approach the last car, his car, the train was gone, and he drove off, going 150 mph. He still has nightmares about that night."

"Imagine living in that place permanently," JJ commented, clearly uncomfortable by that very thought.

"Well, we're about to spend at least a few days there," Tara pointed out, tremors evident in her voice.

"The situation is definitely serious, and those people need our help now, more than ever," Emily declared, standing up. "Wheels up in twenty."

"To the murderous, crime-ridden wasteland we go!" Rossi exclaimed upon standing up and heading outside with Emily, followed by the others.

#

15-year-old Anthony Stork sighed as he cleared out his locker, before glancing at the clock on the wall. 3:30 pm. He sighed before shoving his wallet and cellphone down his pocket, and walked out of the locker room and then outside through the back door, feeling a shiver go down his back as he stepped out on the street.

He kept looking around, hands down his pockets, one of them constantly gripping the cellphone in his pocket. He had managed to leave work for over three months without getting assaulted or something worse, but he was still constantly careful and tense, on the look out. He had no other choice: his parents didn't own a car (anymore), they were currently at work anyway, and the closest bus station was half a mile away. And they definitely needed money. Still, when he was close to reaching the closest bus stop, without experiencing anything uncomfortable or even witnessing anything suspicious, he breathed a sigh of relief. Sure, he had to skip school, but at least this was much safer than returning home following late-afternoon, or a night shift.

Just when he felt at ease, making his way down the small alleyway, Anthony suddenly felt someone jump next to him, grip his collar and push him against the wall. He gasped, his heart skipping a beat, and found himself face to face with a young brunette, who pressed a knife against his throat.

"Don't move, don't make a sound," the woman hissed, holding the blade firmly against throat, pressing it so hard she almost drew blood.

"God..." Anthony whimpered, his face pale, his whole body shaking.

"Quiet!" the mugger hissed, pressing the blade even harder as she leaned over, her eyes burning through. "Give me all your money or I'm gonna cut you to the ribbons!" she hissed, every word dripping with anger.

Anthony gulped. He knew that he was in danger and that he should just comply, but it was like he froze up, like he couldn't say or do anything, and as if his mind still couldn't process it all. He looked around, desperately hoping to spot someone who would save him, or something that he could use to fight off the mugger. But there was no one around. And nothing around, except for abandoned buildings, dumpsters, and some bricks and beer bottles, all way too far out of his reach.

"Eyes on me!" the mugger commanded. "Nobody is here to help you. Come on!"

Anthony knew the safest thing to do was to simply give the money. But he simply couldn't follow through with that idea, for some reason.

"I... My family needs the money..." Anthony tried, his heart pounding in his chest, cold sweat covering his body.

"Shut up!" the mugger spat out, nearly slicing over neck. Anthony cried out, nearly falling down due to shock. "Are you stupid? Money! All!"

Finally, Anthony complied. He slowly reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, and handed it to the mugger. He felt a sharp pain in his chest as he saw the mugger take it, a wide grin on her face. But he had no other choice.

"Thanks," the mugger said mockingly, holding the wallet tightly. She took a step closer, looking Anthony in the eyes as she glared at him, pressing the blade even harder against his throat. "Now I've got your IDs," she whispered in a sinister voice, smirking as she did. "I know where you live. Where your family lives. Don't say a word about this. Clear?"

Anthony nodded his head, unable to say anything.

"Good boy," the mugger whispered, before stepping aside and removing the blade from his throat. Anthony gasped in relief, immediately reaching out to touch his neck, crying out in relief once he realized there was no blood.

The mugger chuckled, glancing at Anthony as she walked away. "Chickenshit," she commented before opening the wallet and looking inside, still holding the knife in her hand.

Just as the mugger made the first two steps down the street, a shot rang out. The mugger cried out in pain and fear and fell down on the ground, blood pouring out of the gunshot wound on her chest, her face twisted in pain and shock. Anthony screamed and quickly ducked down, covering his head with his hands, just around the time when the second shot rang out.

Anthony remained in that position for ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty. Nothing. No more gunshots. No sounds at all, except for weak cries and groans. He finally looked up and carefully looked around, examining the area. There was nobody around. He straightened himself up and examined the area again. Nothing. The shoots must have came from that car; that was long gone by that point.

A bit calmer, he swallowed a lump in his throat and took a deep breath. His gaze soon landed on the young woman bleeding on the pavement... and his wallet, lying right next to her. Two gunshot wounds: one on her chest, the other to her neck. He walked over to the victim and stared down at her, his fists clenched, a glare forming in his look as he noticed the knife laying on the ground next to her, and kicked it away. She looked up at him pleadingly, blood pouring out of her chest and mouth, her face pale and her eyes watery, filled with fear and pain.

"Please..." she barely managed to speak up, her breathing labored and uneven. "Please... I don't have the phone... call 911... get me help... call an ambulance, quickly, I'm begging you... ple-"

"Nobody is here to help you," Anthony calmly replied, before leaning over, picking up his wallet off the ground, and walking away. "Chickenshit."

By the time she took her last breath, he was long gone.

~OPENING ROLES AND CREDITS~


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: I don't own any of the "Criminal Minds" characters and I am not making any money from writing this.**

 **Please forgive any minor spelling or grammar mistakes, English is not my native language.**

 **I sincerely apologize for such a late update. I've been pretty busy, and this chapter took a while to complete. But I hope it was worth it. And, although belated, merry Christmas and a happy New Year, everyone! I wish you the best.**

 **I put a lot of effort into describing Crossroads and its problems, and capturing the plight of people who have to live there. And yes, some of it is borderline satirical. And, once again, Crossroads is completely fictional town.**

Spencer Reid: _~Violence is a disease, a disease that corrupts all who use it regardless of the cause. Chris Hedges~_

The jet was well on its way to the crime-ridden wasteland called Crossroads. Rossi, Spencer, Tara and Emily were sitting to the left, while Matt, Luke and JJ were sitting in the right corner of the jet. They were all flipping through the case files, still struggling to make sense of three serial killers active in the same town at the same time; not to mention the town's violent history-nature, more accurately-and horrifyingly high crime rate.

"Some criminologists argue that the town's current problems can be traced back to its very origin," Spencer pointed out. "Crossroads" was founded back in 1923, by the bottleggers and moonshiners on the run from the authorities during the prohibition era."

"Quite a foundation," Rossi remarked, sighing.

"However, the beginnings of high crime rates, murder rate included, can be traced back to 1990," Spencer continued. "Most of the town's industry relied on and coal mining. As time went on, companies started moving to newer and bigger factories in the suburbs, and coal mining started giving way to cheap natural gas. Most of the factories and mines closed down. As a result, hundreds of citizens lots their jobs. Trucking was also an important source of income, still is. But, from.1990 to 1993, the main highway going through Crossroads, the one still used by the majority of truckers, was closed down due to renovation. Soon, a crime rate went up. There was an increase in burglaries, assaults, vandalism, drug use... one burglary turned homicide, one rape in the town's park... but nothing really major at first. But then, in the summer of 1992, two brothers from Crossroads, 17-year old George Miller and 14-year-old Joe Miller, robbed several banks in the neighboring cities. Eventually, the FBI was called in to investigate. They eventually identified the perpetrators and tracked them down to their family home in Crossroads. Things went wrong, a shootout ensued. Both robbers were killed. Sadly, they managed to kill one of the FBI agents before going down. That was on August 27th 1992. It was soon revealed that their father, Daniel Miller, owned several unlicensed handguns and hunting rifles. The boys had access to them, and they used them to commit the robberies. Daniel Miller was indicted on federal charges, and he committed suicide while awaiting trial. An internal control investigation was launched, but the FBI was soon cleared of any wrongdoing. All that didn't sit well with many of the locals. Over the period of one week, multiple protests and demonstrations ensued throughout the town, eventually turning into a full-blown riot. Two people were killed, dozens were injured. Over thirty homes and businesses were vandalised, lots of them robbed and looted, some set on fire. Quite ironically, the FBI was called in to get the things under control. At one point, they had no choice but to open fire on the rioters, killing three people and injuring over a dozen, two of them left permanently paralyzed from the waist down."

"And a year later, they actually had their first serial killer case," Emily recalled, leaning back in his seat. "And, around the same time, a notorious case of... fetal abduction also took place in that town."

"Ah, Eddie Allen," Rossi recalled. "He got arrested for assaulting an FBI agent during the 1992 riots. After a two-month long trial, he was sentenced to four months in prison. Lost his job at the fast food place while incarcerated. Was also beat up quite badly by a couple of metheads in the joint. Suffered severe head trauma, was in a coma for five days. He also couldn't keep up with the mortages, so the government took away the house that he had inherited from his parents. He had to move to a cheap motel once he got out. Two months after his release from prison, he was arrested for robbing an eldery pawn shop owner. Was in county jail for two months, awaiting trial. Couldn't afford the bail. But the charges were dropped because the store owner died of a heart attack before the trial and couldn't testify."

"So, Eddied got out of jail, and decided to continue robbing people," Emily continued, clearly well familiar with the case herself. "But he also decided not to leave any witnesses behind that time around."

"On September 1st 1993, Eddie Allen gained entry to the Joan Cutler's home," Rossi explained. "Said his car had broken down and he needed to make a phone call. He had a Magnum .44 hidden in his pants. Had bought it from some guy in a bar two weeks prior. Joan was a retired schoolteacher, eighty years old, lived alone. Her husband had died five years prior, her children and grandchildren lived out of town. Once inside Joan's home, Eddie pulled out a gun and forced her to go down to the basement. He shot her multiple times in the head and chest, using an old blanket found in the basement as a silencer, then burglarized her home. Took cash, jewelry, electronics... around 10000$ worth in total. On October 9th 1993, late at night, Eddie trolled the streets late at night, looking for a suitable victim. He eventually encountered 27-year-old Martin Jones, an electrician who had won 4000$ in local casino earlier that night and was on his way home. Eddie ambushes him in the alleyway, puts a gun to his head, demands his winnings, watch and wallet. Martin complies. After getting what he wanted, Eddie shoots him in the forehead and heart, picks up the shell casings and flees."

"October 25th, 1993," Rossi continued. "Eddie Walks into McDonalds right before closing time, brandishing his .44. Dream in a full-body black clothing, black ski mask over his face, black leather gloves over his hands. Only the cashier, 23-year-old Oscar Turner, and the manager, 40-year old Henry Clark, were still there. Eddie forces them to give him the money from the cash registry and safe deposit box, then forces them to go into the basement and get down on their knees, with their backs to him. Shoots them both in the back of the head, twice, killing them. Also steals their wallets and jewelry, and takes security camera tapes with him before fleeing. He made sure to pick up the shell casings too. Took off with more than 20000$."

"And then we've got December 7th 1993," Rossi resumed. "Eddie walks into the women's clothing store just before closing time. The owner, 35-year-old Eve Peterson, is the only one still there. Eddie forces her to give him the money from both cash registry and safe deposit box, forces her into the storage room, has her get down on her knees with her back to him, two bullets to the back of the head. Picks up the shell casings, steals her wallet and jewelry before fleeing, takes security camera tapes with him too. Took off with around 15000$."

"And February 17th 1994," Tara concluded. "Eddie enters jewelry store, just before closing time. Same thing all over again. The victim was the jewelry store owner, 50-year-old Robert Miller. This time, Eddie stole most of the jewelry too. Took off with over 50000$ in cash and jewelry."

"He was finally caught on March 18th 1994, when staking out a small Italian restaurant," Rossi concluded. "An undercover police officer spotted Eddie, confronted him, and found a gun on him. Ballistics linked the gun to all the seven murders, and the subsequent search of Eddie's apartment revealed the stolen money and jewelry that he had not spent yet. He was tried, convicted, and given seven consecutive life sentences. Appealed his conviction multiple times, all denied. Hanged himself in '99."

"The fetal abduction took place in the midst of Eddie Allen's murders," Emily recalled. "Rena White, right?"

"I read about that," Matt chimmed in. "The victim was 24-year-old Jennifer Creek, eight months pregnant at the time. Rena knocks at her door, asks for a glass of water. Jennifer lets her in. Rena pulls out a stake knife she had hidden in her jeans, slits Jennifer's throat and then literally cuts Jennifer's child out of her womb. Then she drives back home and gives the child to her husband, as an early Christmas present. He calls the police immediately. Fortunately, the child survived. She and her father live in a different town now."

"Definitely for the best," JJ remarked, feeling herself shiver.

"The murderer, Rena White, and her husband got stuck in traffic during the 1992 riots," Rossi explained as his face fell. "Rena was six months pregnant at the time. Stray bullet, later determined to had been fired by one of the FBI agents, went through the passenger side window on a downward angle and hit her in the stomach. Killed her unborn child. She went into labor due to shock and pain, gave birth to a stillborn. Rena suffered from severe depression and PTSD as a result, had a mental breakdown, attempted suicide, was institutionalized... she had been released from mental hospital three months before the murder."

"She was found not guilty due to reason of insanity," Reid proceeded. "Spent ten years in psychiatric hospital, was released on Christmas of 2003. She and her husband now live out of state, under different names. Have two children, according to some sources. American dream."

"They had two more serial killers since," Rossi added. " There was also Ryan Snell, the owner of the local fast food franchise who tortured, raped and murdered ten teenage girls from July 2002 to September 2003, and buried their bodies in the crawlspace of his home. He is currently on death row in the Indiana State Prison. In 2011 they had Rebecca McKenzie, a sexual sadist, narcissistic sociopath and piquerist who, from January to October that year, brutally stabbed eight men and women, killing five of them. She started out with homeless people and prostitutes before moving up to low-risk victim. As low-risk as one can be considered while living in Crossroads, anyway. She is now doing life in Rockville Correctional Facility. Still, they didn't ask for our help."

"If they are calling us in now, they know they're screwed," Luke figured.

"Maybe they hope we'll get gunned down on the street," JJ suggested.

"Two out of four truckers were murdered on the isolated locations outside of their scheduled route," Tara noted, looking up from her tablet. "Maybe the unsub posed as a hitchhiker? They pick him up, he points the gun to their head and forces them to drive to the isolated location he had likely picked out in advance."

"But why only do that with two of the victims?" JJ wondered.

"Coincidence?" Tara suggested. "The other two isolated locations the unsun had picked up happened to be on the victims' routes?"

"Do you think we could be looking for two different unsubs in the thrill killer case?" JJ wondered. "The driver and the shooter? It would be quite difficult to drive while holding a high-power rifle, and score kill-shoots all five times."

"Maybe, but it really wouldn't be that hard for an experienced shooter to pull off," Luke replied. "We should definitely investigate local shooting ranges and gun stores though."

"God..." JJ groaned, her eyes glued to the tablet screen. "Somebody actually started a petition, requesting that the government relocates all the current residents and then literally burns the town to the ground," she read, wincing.

"I wouldn't be surprised if it were one of the locals," Rossi commented, sighing.

"Despite the high crime rate, there aren't many records of organized crime in this town," Matt pointed out, frowning.

"For the most part, that is true," Spencer agreed, looking up from his tablet. "But even so, one of the rare all-female American gangs is active in that town. Has been since 2005. HSK, abbreviated from "Homicide Street Killers"."

"No comment," Rossi said, still flipping through the case file.

"There is a street in that town, called "Homicide Street"?" Tara exclaimed, wincing.

"Just wait till you get to see the Drive-by Avenue and the Rape Hill," Spencer replied. "But hey, they do host a pumpking pie fair every 5th of September." He frowned, shifting in his seat. "Maybe at least one series of murders could be gang-related. HSK taking out prostitutes, cleaning their territory. Making the murders look like a work of a serial killer."

"Would they really benefit from that, though?" Emily questioned. "Drugs and prostitutes often go hand in hand. Attract certain... clientele. For all we know, some of the victims could have been pimped out by some of the HSK members."

"Maybe the victims saw something they shouldn't have, or had some connection to the HSK and wanted out?" Spencer suggested. "Maybe just a few, or even just one of the victims were specifically targeted, and the rest is just a forensic countermeasure?"

"Well, two of the victims had a used syringe forced down their throat post-mortem," JJ noted.

"Could be a message from the gang," Luke suggested.

"Or from the single unsub; a moral vigilante," Emily theorized. "Several of the victims were drug addicts as well as prostitutes. The unsub could be leaving a message for us. Making it clear that the victims deserved to die due to their lifestyles."

"And despite all this, the truckers are constantly in and out of this town," Matt pointed out, confused.

"Well, two of the main trucking routes pass through Crossroads," Emily pointed out. "And there are usually plenty of police patrols circling around truck stop restrooms. Still, with all this going on, plenty of trucking companies are pulling out of there. Probably one of the reasons why they decided to call us in."

"Damn, the residents' Twitter feeds sure are depressing," JJ commented, browsing on her phone. " _There is no hope. No justice. No light at the end of a tunnel. I'm seriously considering taking a walk outside after 7 pm and ending it all._ "

"The town's newspaper isn't much better," Spencer chimmed in. "You know something is rotten when three different serial killers active in the same town don't always end up on headlines."

"Still, it can't be long before this blows up, especially now that the FBI is involved," Rossi pointed out, shifting in his seat. "It is just a matter of time before CNN arrives into town. Or something even worse."

"Statistics show that 70 percent of Crossroads' permanent residents were either a victim or a perpetrator of a violent crime at least once in their lives," Spencer said. "Not at the same time, of course... at least in most cases. But still."

"I'm prepared for the worst, and will probably still be horrified and disgusted," Rossi muttered.

"According to the police report, there was an eyewitness to one of the drive-by shootings," Spencer Reid. "Brian Gould, the store owner. Also, one of the prostitute victims, Maggie Brenner, had a very close friend, Alyssa Beecher, also a prostitute. Neither witness revealed much when first questioned, but a cognitive interview coulf refresh their memory."

Just as Reid finished his summation, a near by monitor lightened up. Garcia's face popped up on the screen a moment later.

"Bad news, do-gooders," she exclaimed. "25-year-old Heather Adams was found shot to death on the Mugging Street, just across the corner from the Carjacking Drive. And yes, those are the actual street names, in case there was any doubt. One bullet to the neck, the other to the abdomen. The preliminary medical examination indicates that she had likely been shot with a high-powered rifle, and one witness reported seeing an SVU speed away down the street shortly after the shots rang out. Sounds like it could be your unsub. One of them, I mean."

"He usually shoots the victims in the head and chest," Emily noted. "He could be getting sloppy. Escalating."

"Or he just had a bad day," Luke suggested. "Happens to the best."

"Maybe he's evolving," Tara theorized. "He wants to increase the victims' suffering, rather than just kill them as quickly as possible."

"Or it could be a copycat," Matt pondered.

"As far as I can tell, the info about the vehicles and the rifle used haven't been made public," Garcia informed them.

"Still, it's a small town," Rossi pointed out. "Information probably travels fast. Even the classified one."

"And that is not all," Garcia continued, tremors evident in her voice. "A young Asian American woman was found murdered in Raskoljnikov inn., a cheap motel on Maple Street, just a few hours ago. Cops found her ID on the scene. 20-year-old Liv Chen. A quick background search reveals a long criminal record for solicitation, theft and grand larceny. According to the info available so far, the ME estimates the victim had been dead up to a day before her body was found. Bludgeoned to death, like the previous prostitute victims. But she had also been garrotted with electrical cord, there is evidence of mutilation with a sharp object, and the preliminary medical examination also revealed signs of rape."

"Very different M.O.," JJ pointed out. "This one could be a copycat."

"Great," Luke muttered.

"Well, we won't know until we get to the scene. Thank you, Penelope," Emily said.

"You're welcome," Garcia replied, sounding worried. "And please, be careful. Like, extra, extra careful."

"We will. It's a promise," Emily assured her, smiling.

#

Emily and the others frowned as they entered the precinct, looking around as they made their way down the hall. They had not expected it to look particularly... appealing, but they had not thought it would be that bad. The paint was literally peeling off the walls at every corner, all the desks looked like they had been purchased back in 1950s (and had not been cleaned since), there were visible bullet holes on several walls, everyone in the precinct-from police officers and staff, eyewitnesses giving statements and the victims being comforted, to the criminals being led to holding cells-was staring daggers at them, the only security camera they saw was the one above the front door, and the whole place reeked of gunpowder, cigarettes and cheap liquor. They were about to ask for directions (though they did not expect to get any helpful advice) when they were approached by the detective Corey Meadows, who held out his hand to the unit chief.

"You must be the BAU," he said, shaking hands with Emily. "Sorry to keep you waiting, we've been very busy lately," he explained, extending the same courtesy to others. "I mean, we're always busy, but this is Hell."

"It's alright, we understand," Emily said, though she felt herself shiver.

"We've got everything set up for you in that big workroom just down the hall," detective explained, heading down the hallway as the BAU followed suit. "Just near the administration's office. I admit, it's still a bit... derute since those dipshits threw those hand grenades through the window, just three months ago. But all the blood and shrapnels have been cleaned up, and you can barely notice the smell anymore."

"Well, as long as there is no blood..." Rossi commented, grimacing.

"While going through the case files, we noticed that there was a potential witness to one of the drive-by shootings," Spencer mentioned. "Brian Gould, the store owner. The police report was a bit vague on that part, none of his contact information was listed in the file. Can you help us get in touch with him? We would like to ask him a few questions."

Detective Meadows grimaced, letting out a heavy sigh as his face fell. "Yeah, I'm afraid you can't learn anything new from him. Brian was killed a month ago. His wife too. Three thugs broke into their store, beat them to death and looted the place. No evidence that is connected to any of these serial murders, though. Just the perks of living in "Crossroads"."

"We also learned that one of the murdered prostitute had a close friend, Alyssa Beecher," Tara pointed out, sounding hopeful. "Do you think we could maybe re-interview her..."

"We pulled Alyssa from the ditch two weeks ago," the detective informed her, sounding frustrated, a grim look on his face. "Heroin overdose," he explained upon reaching the workroom and opening the door, leading the BAU inside.

The workroom was around 30 square meters big. Its walls were covered with cracks, and there were even several gaping holes here and there. The walls used to be painted blue, but they were mostly a dirty shade of grey now, and the paint had fallen off the walls on many places. The floor was covered with dust and paint chips. Only one window had glass on it (clearly replaced recently), others had been boarded up. The only furniture was an old desk, five even older chairs, a rusty file cabinet and a washed-up blackboard. The air was foul and heavy, the whole room reaking of dust, moisture and gunpowder. A bloody latex glove and a piece of crime scene tape were still laying in a corner near the door.

"If I'm not mistaken, there is also a gang active in the town center" Spencer brought up, trying to ignore the foul odor and the terrible decor present throughout the workroom; not to mention all the dust. "The... HSK."

Detective nodded his head, grimacing as he spoke up. "Yeah. We've had some issues with them recently. Some vandalism, a few robberies... a month ago we even caught the two of them trying to break into a patrol car. I highly doubt they are involved in any of this though. Not their style. For once, they do profit quite a lot from prostitution."

"Did any of the murdered prostitutes have ties to the HSK?" Luke asked, turning to face.

"Not that we have been able to uncover. But even if you were to argue that they are eliminating competition or something, I'd bet that an increased police presence, and fear among prostitutes and johns, has hurt their business too. We've also got a few informants keeping the tabs on them, keeping us up to date. No news about any serial murder plot."

"But there are still plenty of girls out there," Rossi pointed out. "We noticed. On our way to the precinct."

Detective Meadows sighed, nodding his head. "Yeah, we've warned most of them, but still," he explained, running a hand through his hair. "Some have switched to working during the day, which is why you saw them... but the nights are still pretty busy. Even so, this mess isn't doing any working girls any favors. Hence, I highly doubt the HSK has anything to do with this."

"So... other than the two most recent murders, have there been any recent developments since we've been called in?" Emily asked, looking around.

"As a matter of fact, yes," Corey informed them, pacing around. "I was about to inform you of this. We just brought Malcolm Jeffries in for questioning. He is a known pimp. Has a long criminal record for solicitation, aggravated assault and possession of narcotics. We already know he was pimping out at least two of the victims. We previously interrogated him several times. He denied any involvement, but couldn't provide an alibi for any of the murders. And recently, we learned, from the arrest records, that he used to pimp out one of the most recent victims, Natalie Jones. She ditched him two years ago, went to work on her own. The second suspect is Mitch Barlow, a trucker. Worked for the same company as the first trucker victim, Robert West. Mitch has a criminal record for assault and grand larceny. Phone records showed he had been in contact with the victim. Several coworkers witnessed them arguing a week prior to the murder. Didn't hear about what exactly, though. We interrogated him once, found out nothing. Tested him for GSR; negative. He doesn't own a firearm. But this morning, he was caught trying to break into Robert's home. They are both exercising their right to remain silent. Neither has asked for a lawyer yet. Probably because they can't afford one. The DA is working on obtaining the search warrants as we speak. Of course, he, too, is pretty busy."

"Maybe we can get them to speak," Emily suggested, hopefully.

Detective Meadows nodded his head, taking a glance at the door before turning to face Emily. "Listen... you must have heard how most of the locals here feel about the FBI. There's no point denying it. That is just the way things are around here. But we do need your help. We are in this together. If you have any problems around here, if anyone is giving you hard time, come to me, OK?"

"Sure," Emily responded.

"And, when you go out on the field, I will send our police patrols tailing you," Meadows continued, his face pale. "Going on your own would, honestly, be insane."

Emily just nodded her head and turned toward the board. She had nothing to say.

#

Mitch Barlow scoffed, shooting a glare at Spencer and then at JJ, briefly glancing at the camera on the interrogation room wall before he spoke up.

"Screw you, feds," Mitch said, every word dripping with contempt. "I know my rights. If I don't have to talk to our own pigs, I sure as hell don't have to talk to you."

"That's quite the aminosity you've got, Mitch," Spencer commented, his sarcasm evident.

Mitch glared at him, his lips twisting into a snarl. "Don't pretend you know nothing about it," he argued, disgust in his voice intensifying. "You guys are the reason why this town is the way it is right now."

"Since I was ten years old back in 1992, I highly doubt it," Spencer replied. Mitch scoffed and rolled his eyes. Spencer took two steps closer to him and leaned over, his voice a bit lower when he spoke up. "Look, Mitch, there are three different serial killers currently active in this town. Everyone is desperate for answers, for leads. If the word gets out that you're in custody... good luck trying to clear your name afterwards. Is that what you want?"

Ben stared back at Spencer, a frown appearing on his face, wheels turning in his mind. "I'll give you two minutes," he finally said, sounding a bit calmer, but still annoyed to say the least.

"Why did you break into Robert's house?" JJ asked.

Mitch shrugged, leaning back in his chair. "He was dead. Had been for months. And I knew he didn't have any family in town. Things haven't been great for me financially. I figured, why not? He wasn't going to use any of that stuff no more anyway. Honestly, I'm surprised someone else had not done it earlier."

"Do you know did Robert have any enemies?" JJ asked, pacing around the interrogation room. "Did he seem scared, stressed out, acted odd in the days prior to his death?"

"Like I said the first time they questioned me, no," Mitch answered. "That hasn't changed."

"You're not helping us, Mitch," Spencer pointed out.

"I'm telling you all I know," Mitch countered.

"Why don't you tell us what did you and Robert argue about a week prior to the murder?" JJ suggested, her eyes meeting Mitch's.

Spencer and JJ stared back at him for several moments, clearly not believing his claim one bit. Mitch remained silent.

"We're leaving," Spencer decided, then immediately headed toward the door, with JJ in tow. "Good luck with that attempted burglary charge."

Mitch looked after them, his mouth agape. It was only when Spencer pulled the door open and stepped outside that Mitch spoke up. "Wait!"

Spencer and JJ stopped in their tracks and turned to face Mitch, questioning look on their faces. Mitch sighed, defeat written across his face.

"Look. All I know is... Robert liked to gamble." He stopped for a moment, looking away. He seemed to be choosing his words carefully. "Not in casinos or anything. Illegal, underground stuff. He mentioned it to me a couple of times. Liked to brag. Apparently, he'd win a lot of money from time to time. Or so he claimed. Don't know any specifics though. That's up to you to find. I hoped he still had some of that money in his home, that's why I broke in." He glared at Spencer and then at JJ, a stern look on his face. "And remember; you didn't get this from me."

Spencer and JJ nodded, frowning as they walked away.

#

Malcolm Jeffries glared at Emily and then at Luke, derision coloring his features. "I refused to talk to that pig, and I sure as hell won't be talking to you, feds," he spat out, leaning back in his chair.

"You are a murder suspect," Luke pointed out, his eyes meeting Malcolm's. "If you know something that could help us with the investigation, that could steer us in the right direction, now is the time to talk."

"It's not my job to provide you with the leads, bitches," Malcolm responded, snickering. "And you can't pin this on me, anyway. You've got no evidence. Because I haven't done anything wrong."

"The DA is working on a search warrant right now," Emily said, taking a step closer. "We can still get you on pimping charges."

"None of that will hold up, unless one of the guys or gals actually testifies against me," Malcolm countered, grinning. "And you can bet your fine ass that none of them will."

"They have before," Emily pointed out, ignoring his crass comment. "Hence those prior convictions."

Malcolm chuckled, crossing his arms over his chest. "Let's just say I've gotten much more... persuasive over the years." He grinned, looking Emily over. "Would you like a demonstration, sugar-tits?"

"Seriously now... don't you want to know who's killing your girls? And guys?" Luke tried. "Don't you want that guy off the streets? If you can help us with that..."

"I don't need your help on that front," Malcolm said, assuredly.

"Yeah, I'm sure you've been conducting your own independent... search, investigation," Emily chimmed in, pacing around the interrogation room. "And that you're planning to take care of that problem yourself, your own way, once you find the guy. But do you really want to risk going against a serial killer who has brutally murdered seven people? And, no offense, but your investigation doesn't appear to be very successful. The bodies keep piling up. You think your girls trust you, with all this crap going on? You could really use our help."

"Do you want to risk another one getting killed while you're here with us?" Luke asked, causing Malcolm to flinch. "Or running off to someone else? Come on, man. Help us out."

Malcolm sighed, shooting one more glare at Luke and then Emily before he spoke. "Look. Even though Natalie was no longer one of my girls, I have... heard things. I kept an eye out on her. All I can tell you is... she wasn't turning tricks nowhere near that truck stop restroom. And she was smart, careful. If she really was killed there, either the killer forced her to there somehow... or she must have really trusted him. Known him well. Probably a regular. I'm sure of it."

"What about Ling Chen?" Emily asked, raising her eyebrows.

"Nevet heard of her," Malcolm answered, shrugging. "Not one of my girls."

"Do you happen to know of any johns that were... rough with your girls? Maybe stopped coming shortly before the murders started?"

"Nope," Malcolm answered almost immediately, shaking his head.

"Come on," Luke tried, smiling slightly. "In a town like this?"

"None that could possibly be the killer," Malcolm insisted. "I've talked to all of them. I've got certain... methods. Pretty effective. If any of them were responsible, I'd know."

#

Spencer and Matt did their best to step over syringes, empty beer bottles and dog feces that covered the already derute asphalt, surrounded by just as damaged brick walls covered with vulgar graffiti and bullet holes. Spencer gulped, grimacing as he observed the first crime scene.

"You sure you are OK, man?" Matt asked, noticing how pale Spencer was.

"Just because I saw four different people defecating on the sidewalk, and witnessed a homeless man sodomizing a dog cadaver in the middle of the street, doesn't mean I'm not in the work mode," Spencer said, swallowing a lump in his throat. "Scarred for life, yes, but I'm used to that," he admitted, a disgusted look on his face.

"According to the crime scene photographs, forensics found traces of victim's blood on this wall," Spencer noted, looking up from his tablet, his gaze landing on the faded brick wall near by. Traces of dried blood where still visible. Spencer felt himself shiver. Apparently, crime scene cleaners weren't a thing in Crossroads. Or maybe there simply wasn't enough of them to take care of all the crime scenes in town? "Pretty big amount. Probably where she got her throat slit. But the blood splatters aren't consistent with that injury. They appear to be smeared." He took another look at the case file, and then started walking in the opposite direction, toward the dumpster, looking at the rough, scuffed asphalt and then back at the crime scene photographs every now and then. He stopped mere inches away from the dumpster, then grimaced and quickly took few steps back, shuddering as he did. He glanced at the police report and one of the crime scene photographs, a frown appearing on his face. "The victim's body was left in a nearby dumpster and covered with trash," he read out loud, conclusion slowly forming in his mind. "But it was also wrapped in a blue tarp."

"When they found the victim's body, her eyes were closed, and her arms were crossed over her chest," Spencer reasoned, a knowing look on his face. "After murdering Lisa, the unsub hastily tried to clean up the blood. Then he closed her eyes, crossed her arms over her chest, wrapped her in a tarp, put the body in the dumpster, and then covered it with trash," Spencer pointed out, looking around as he did. He sighed, turning his attention to the dumpster again. "This was definitely the unsub's first kill," he concluded. "He panicked after killing the victim, tried to clean up the blood. And he showed remorse."

"Well, it sure didn't stay that way for long," Matt commented, sounding somewhat frustrated.

"Forensics first found traces of blood in the center of the alleyway, on this wall. And then there were gravitational blood splatters leading to this dumpster, where the body was found," Matt summarized, observing the crime scene photographs and then the asphalt carefully, frowning as he did. Then he took a good, long look around, meticulously studying his surroundings, taking in every detail. "This is a pretty long and wide alleyway," he pointed out, taking a few steps to the right. "Lots of street light around too," he remarked, looking around. "And the autopsy revealed no defense wounds on the victim's body. Nothing under her fingernails either. And the only knife wound, that proved to be fatal, was a single long, wide laceration across her neck."

"There is no way the unsub could have sneaked up on Lisa," Matt realized, his eyes widening. "So, he is at least somewhat socially skilled, experienced," he profiled, his eyes meeting Spencer's. "Appears normal, non-threatening. Probably approached Lisa for sex, promised to pay her. She didn't suspect a thing. She followed him into the alleyway, let her guard down. And then he ambushed her and murdered her. Maybe he frequented prostitutes before. We should talk to them, see do any of them recall something that could help us with the investigation."

"Good idea," Spencer agreed, still scanning the crime scene, thinking all the information and details over carefully.

"The cut on Lisa's neck was pretty deep, and long," Spencer remarked. "Enough to kill her fairly quickly, judging by the lack of defense wounds. The injuries on the other victims were quite extreme too." He stopped in place, took a careful look at one of the crime scene photographs, and then looked over the road again. "Forensics found no drag marks on the crime scene," he noticed, his voice firm and analytical. "And all the blood splatters leading to the dumpster were gravitational. The unsub carried the victim to the dumpster." "We're looking for someone strong, fit, in shape. Maybe even athletic."

#

JJ carefully observed the bodies laid out on the autopsy tables, as the M.E. stood near by, the autopsy report in his hand and a solemn look on his face. The last body laid out on the table belonged to Nicole Jones.

"These are the only victims still here," the M.E. explained. "The other victims have been buried or cremated by now." He sighed, looking up at JJ. "No offense, but I would appreciate it if you didn't stay for too long. I've got five more autopsies to perform before my shift ends."

"Don't worry, I understand," JJ answered politely. "I won't stay for too long."

"That's what I said when I first got the job here," the M.E. remarked, chuckling briefly.

"You've worked here for a while, huh?" JJ commented.

"For decades," the M.E. answered, a solemn smile appearing on his lips. "I've been thinking about retiring lately... Ironically enough, I might be the oldest person in this town, actually. Most of the people here don't live pass 40."

"You look great," JJ complimented him, smiling back. "I wouldn't give you a year pass 70."

"I'm 58," the M.E. corrected her, his smile fading away. JJ froze in place, her eyes widening, a horrified look forming on her face. "No hard feelings though," the ME quickly put her concerns at ease, smiling again. "Living in this town does take its toll on people."

"It was a bit difficult to determine what kind of weapon was used to bludgeon the victims, exactly," the M.E. explained. "Most of the blows were pretty brutal, and plenty of them overlapped. But I'm pretty sure that, in all the cases, either a hammer or a crowbar was used. Most likely, it was a hammer in some cases and a crowbar in the others. Sometimes more at the same time, possibly."

"Also, according to your autopsy report, the first victim, Lisa Monroy, had her throat slit by either an awl or a screwdriver?" JJ questioned, frowning.

"Yes," the M.E. confirmed, nodding his head. "The shape, depth and the angle of the wound pointed to those two tools as the most likely weapon used."

"And the second victim, Shanna Ketchum, was garrotted with an isolation cord," JJ reasoned, deep in her thoughts.

"Yup. It was still wrapped tightly around her neck when they put her on my table. Broke the skin."

"Judging by the weapons used, and an evident physical strength applied in the murders, the unsub could work as a handyman," JJ concluded.

"Most of the employed locals are blue-collar workers," the M.E. confirmed.

#

The second alleyway was a bit cleaner than the previous one, though there was a disturbing number of chewing gums plastered over the ground and walls. Spencer and Matt walked over to the exact location where Shanna Ketchum's body was found.

Shanna Ketchum still had her wallet on her, Spencer noted, looking up from the tablet. "With two hundred dollars inside."

"Busy night," Matt figured, sighing.

"Her necklace was gone, but her wrist watch and ear rings were intact, Spencer continued, going over the police report again. "The necklace was probably a trophy. Lisa Monroy's ear rings were missing, but she still had her wrist watch and bracelet. The unsub always murders late at night, and doesn't rob his victims. He probably has a steady day job." He sighed, taking another look around. "There actually was a security camera near the alleyway, but somebody smashed it shortly before the murder."

"Maybe," Matt agreed. "But the prostitutes are the most active at night," he pointed out, looking around. "That could also be a factor."

"More active, sure," Spencer replied. "But I'm pretty sure we've seen at least twenty prostitutes out there, in broad daylight. And there are plenty of isolated locations near by. Deserted alleyways, abandoned buildings and factories..."

"Good point," Matt agreed, nodding his head. He frowned, recollection sparkling in his eyes. "Come to think of it... I remember seeing a much bigger alleyway just half a mile down the road. There were five prostitutes turning tricks there. Probably even more at night," he reasoned, running a hand through his hair. "And yet, the unsub murdered the second victim, Shanna Ketchum, in a much smaller alleyway close by. And he made sure to smash a security camera located near the alleyway. I don't remember seeing any security cameras around the bigger alleyway, just half a mile away."

"It could be a coincidence," Spencer suggested, though he didn't sound quite convinced.

"Maybe..." Matt mumbled.

"Also, a police station is a two miles away," Spencer mentioned, shooting a glance down the street. "And I think I remember seeing a cop bar located near that bigger alleyway."

"Yeah, me too," Matt confirmed. "I guess they don't care about the prostitution happening right under their noses."

"They have much more important crimes to investigate," Spencer pointed out. "The girls are aware of it too. That's why they are still operating there. Even during the day."

"I wouldn't be surprised if some of the cops are using their... "services"," Matt theorized, grinding his teeth. "Or even taking a cut in an exchange for allowing them to turn tricks there. The bar also looked quite well-kept compared to other houses and objects in town. No graffiti, no rust..."

"As if the bar opened fairly recently," Spencer figured out. "He put the tablet under his arm, pulled out his phone, and did a quick Google search. "They've got a website, actually," he read. "According to the front page, the bar was only opened a few months ago. Only a week before the murder of Shanna Ketchum, actually." Spencer frowned, slowly putting all the pieces together. "The unsub must have known about the cop bar only a week after it opened, and he made sure to break the security camera located close to the smaller, more isolated alleyway near by," he profiled, looking around as he did. "Couldn't find that many information about the cop bar online, either. Mostly just that website. The opening wasn't heavily publicized. And there are probably bunch of way more... important and memorable news from Crossroads flying around every day," he concluded with a sigh. "The unsub is definitely a local. Knows his way around town. Must have lived here for years. And not many people move to this town, for obvious reasons. It wouldn't surprise me if the unsub was born in Crossroads, lived here his entire life."

"Well, that alone sounds enough to mess someone up," Matt commented. Spencer just nodded, a grim look on his face.

#

Tara frowned as she carefully observed the truckers' bodies, laid out on three autopsy tables, right next to each other. She would occassionally look into the autopsy report on her tablet. Only the body of the first victim, Robert West, was no longer there; his funeral had taken place two weeks prior. A different M.E., young Puerto Rican woman with eyeglasses and lip piercing, was standing near by, wearing a white lab coat, a copy of the autopsy report in her hand.

"Not much to tell, unfortunately," the M.E. said, sighing. "All four victims died from multiple gunshot wounds to the head and chest. They were all pistol-whipped and shot in the knees too, pre-mortem. Clear evidence of torture. No evidence of sexual assault or a recent sexual activity, nothing under their fingernails, all tox screens came back clean. I took multiple swabs from all the bodies and sent them to the lab. But from what I've heard, they only found victims' own DNA, traces of gunshot residue and gun oil, fibers that likely came from the victim's own clothing, and dirt, dust and grass that came from the crime scenes."

"Yup," Tara confirmed, taking another look at the forensic report, before turning her attention back to the bodies. "Such a rage... brutality... they are probably surrogates for someone."

"Well, people have killed for way less around him," the M.E. commented, sounding disgusted.

"So, all four victims were beaten and tortured before being shot to death," Tara reasoned, tapping at her tablet. "Only the third victim, James Miller, had defense wounds on his body. Multiple bruises and lacerations on both forearms, as well as fresh bruises on the waist and lower abdomen. He was also shot in the right hand and the left foot too, while all the other victims were only shot in the head, chest and knees. Guess he kicked some ass," Tara remarked, smirking. "Or tried too."

"Statistically, not many people fight back when a firearm is involved," Tara explained, studying closely, looking back at the autopsy report and the crime scene photographs every now and then. "But, according to friends and family, James Miller had been practicing MMA for five years. A background check also revealed he had a criminal record for a bar fight that took place back in 2015. Not the kind of guy to go down easily, even when staring down the barrel of a gun." She frowned. "No fibers or threads were recovered in any of the victims' injuries, nor the gunshot wounds," she read, sounding somewhat confused, almost surprised.

"Yes," the ME confirmed, nodding her head. "It would appear that they were all naked when they were tortured and shot."

"No defense wounds other than the ones on James Miller's body, no evidence that any of the victims were drugged," Tara reasoned, looking up from her tablet. "The unsub points a gun at them, forces them to undress. Probably to humiliate them, make them feel more vulnerable, exposed. Also a good forensic countermeasure." She stopped for a moment, her voice a bit lower once she spoke up. "But there were also no fibers or threads found inside James Miller's injuries either. Not even the defense wounds."

"So?" the ME replied, having no idea what Tara was getting at.

"That means he was already naked when he fought back," Tara pointed out. "If the unsub forced the victims, at gunpoint, to undress, why would James Miller wait until he was naked to fight back?"

"I don't know," the M.E. admitted, sounding intrigued herself.

Tara took one more look at the autopsy report and the crime scene photographs, frowning as she did, a silent groan escaping her lips.

"Something wrong?" the M.E. inquired.

"No, just... the crime scene photographs," Tara explained. "The blood splattered all over James Miller's left hand. But there is an empty space on his wrist. Probably where his wrist watch was."

"The killer must have robbed the victims after killing them," the M.E. explained. "When he forced them to undress, they only removed their clothes, not the jewelry."

"Yes," Tara agreed, nodding her head. "But the blood also splattered all over the fingers of James Miller's left hand. Including the ring finger. There is a mark there, from his wedding ring. But no ring; and no empty space either. The blood splatters lie atop of the ring line. You can barely see it. But it's there. And it doesn't appear that the blood was smeared. So, James Miller must have already had his wedding ring off when he was shot."

Tara stopped for a moment, carefully weighing all the odds and theories in her head. The M.E. was observing her carefully, clearly curious, like she was trying to guess Tara's thoughts. Once Tara spoke up, it was like a tension pulsating through the morgue increased even more. But it was also clear that they were nearing the solution.

"All the victims were naked when they were tortured and murdered," Tara profiled, carefully lying out all the facts as she was nearing the final conclusion. "The third victim, James Miller, was naked when he fought back. He also didn't wear his wedding ring when he was shot, even though, in all the other cases, the evidence suggests that the unsub stole the victims' jewelry after shooting them. Three of these four murders happened late at night, when the victims were on their night route. And, according to the police records, the second victim, Michael Gray, was convicted of soliciting a prostitute in 2015, and once again in 2017." She paused for a moment, feeling goose bumps as the conclusion fully formed in her mind, her face lightening up. "The unsub is a prostitute," Tara concluded, sounding almost completely certain, a proud look coloring her features. "Or, at the very least, someone posing as one. The victims pick her up, willingly drive over to an isolated location with her, and undress themselves voluntarily. Let their guard down. And then she pulls out a gun."

"What a shitty way to die," the M.E. commented, wincing.

#

Emily and Luke grimaced as they made their way down the alleyway, trying to ignore the rotten odors hanging in the air. They both wore latex gloves over their hands and booties over their shoe bottoms, but that time, it was mainly for hygienic purposes.

"So, this is where the first victim was gunned down," Luke commented, looking around.

"Homeless man," Emily chimmed in, taking three steps south. "Shot to death while dumpster diving. Right... here," she concluded, stopping in front of a big green dumpster.

"Poor guy never had a chance..." Luke remarked, sighing.

"Isolated alleyway, no security cameras, no one but few homeless people around... maybe the unsub chose this location beforehand," Emily theorized, looking around.

"But he seemed to move on to more public locations afterwards," Luke pointed out, frowning.

"Well, that's natural," Emily explained, turning to face him. "Everything points to this unsub being a thrill killer. Once he started evolving, he started taking more risks. And wanted the public to witness his crimes. To shock people. And to really feel the thrill of the chase; and the kill."

"Geez," Luke commented. "Hasn't this guy heard of bungee jumping?"

"I remember seeing this in the police files," he explained, looking up at Emily. "This is a HSK sign. And this alleyway is only mile and a half away from the Homicide Street."

"Barely faded at all," Emily noted, observing the sign carefully. "Must have been put on recently. But I see other, faded signs too. Same ones."

"So, this is a gang theory," Luke concluded, straightening himself up. "Has been for some time now. Could explain how come there aren't many people around, not even homeless people. Gangbangers run this area, especially at night."

"Detective did mention that there has been an increase in gang-related crimes lately," Emily recalled, nodding her head. "And that they even caught two gang members trying to break into the police car. Guess mean girls got pretty pissed off over the murder committed on their territory."

"Breaking into a police car could be their way of sending a message to the authorities," Luke theorized. "Telling them to leave them alone and focus om catching the real bad guy, the serial killer. Though it could also be a result of them trying to get their hands on the case materials."

"Just imagine if they got their hands on the unsub," Emily said, shuddering.

"And that's what I can't understand," Luke started, frowning as he paced around the alleyway. "Why would the unsub go against the gang like this? Most of the locals seem to fear the HSK, and they do know that this alleyway is the HSK territory. Even if they don't know right away, these signs would probably be a dead giveaway. No pun intended."

"Well, this unsub is a thrill killer," Emily countered. "Also, committing the murder here could be a forensic countermeasure. Trying to frame the gang."

"Yeah, but he is otherwise pretty careful, and methodical," Luke pointed out. "He wouldn't have put himself into more danger than necessary. And he committed most of the other murders on public locations, mostly in the town centre... in relatively upscale areas even, not gang territories."

"There is another odd detail," Emily exclaimed, stepping away from the dumpster. "We profiled that the unsub committed the first murder in an isolated alleyway as a forensic countermeasure. To lower the risk of detection. But there is a contradictory element to that. The unsub also committed the first murder on September 5th."

"I don't follow," Luke admitted, raising his eyebrows.

"Spencer made a comment about that," Emily explained. "Over the last three years, the annual pumpkin pie fair takes place just three miles away from here. On September 5th. Plenty of money circulating, some liquor... nothing big, obviously, but people have been robbed-or worse-for far less around here. So, every day, on September 5th, they've got double the police patrols cruising around, in a five mile radius. This alleyway included. I'd bet even HSK stays away from here that day. At least during the daytime."

"So, our unsub chooses to commit his first murder in an isolated alleyway, with no security cameras around... on the day when there were twice as many police patrols around," Luke reasoned, sounding even more confused.

"Case in point," Emily confirmed, scrolling down the case file on her tablet. "According to the police report, two police officers stationated near by overheard what sounded like an exhaust backfiring," she read, sounding both excited and confused at the same time. "Must have been the gunshot. And then they saw red Sedan speeding away from the alleyway, going way over the speed limit. They tailed him for a mile, until he managed to escape. And since the windows were tinted and the licence plates had been taken from car junkyard, they couldn't provide any useful description."

A heavy, long silence ensued. Emily and Luke stood in the centre of that dirty, smelly alleyway, deep in their thoughts, tryning to make sense out all of this... while listening attentively the whole time, keeping their hand on the holster, trying to ignore the nauseating stench present there, not to mention the beer bottles, drug syringes and dog crap all over the asphalt. Emily coughed before finally speaking up, shooting a glance at the near by road before turning towards Luke again.

"Probably didn't know about this being a HSK territory, wasn't aware of increased police surveillance on September 5th... What if the unsub isn't a local?" Emily suggested, her eyes meeting Luke's. "I mean, he must have lived here for some time by now, he knows his way around town well enough. But I doubt he grew up here... or has even lived here for more than a few years."

"I'm gonna have Garcia look into all the people that moved to Crossroads over the last three years," Luke decided, pulling out his phone. "There can't be many people that moved to this hellhole recently."

#

Spencer kicked two empty beer bottles aside as he and Matt paced around the truck stop restroom, looking the crime scene over and then studying the crime scene photographs every now and then.

"Blood all over the walls and floor, no gravitational blood drops... definitely an original crime scene," Spencer concluded, examining the crime scene. "The body wasn't just dumped here, the victim was definitely killed here." He sighed, feeling nauseaus again. "Dirt, beer bottles, condoms and smeared fingerprints and shoe prints all over the place. I doubt forensics will get much out of this. At least they cleaned up the blood here, though... they do depend on the trucking business around here, after all."

"Police all over the streets, especially at night, and this guy keeps getting away with it," Matt complained.

"Well, he operates in several different neighborhoods, and there are many prostitutes in Crossroads," Spencer explained. "There are usually plenty of police patrols around truck stop restrooms, though... the unsub might own a police scanner."

"Anyone could have easily walked in on the unsub, even at night," Matt noted. "He is their deevolving, escalating, or he is well familiar with the area. Maybe even the restroom itself."

"Definitely a local, just like we profiled," Spencer confirmed.

"The age and race of his victims varies... but judging by the brutality of his crimes and the brutality evident in the murders, he is likely between 20 and 40 years old..." Matt profiled, frowning. "His first victim was Caucasian, so he might be also..." He turned to face Spencer. "What are racial stats like for this town?"

"Crossroads is not as homogeneous as most of the small towns, actually," Spencer answered almost right away. "The latest consensus showed that 37% of permanent residents were Caucasian, 25% were African American, 18% Asian American, 5% Hispanic, 5% Latino and 10% were other ethnicities and biracial."

"So much for that," Matt said, sighing. Suddenly, he frowned, looking up at Spencer. "Do you think this unsub is a trucker?"

Spencer raised his eyebrows, remaining silent for a few moments before answering. "Maybe... but I doubt it. Most of the truckers murder hitchhikers, commit the murders in their trucks, and dump the bodies on isolated locations. That is one of the reasons why serial killers/truckers are that common. Easy access to victims and easy ways to successfully dispose of the bodies. This unsub doesn't fit any of those criteria." He sighed, shooting a glance at the door. "This whole town is so... uncomfortable. I am constantly alert, on the look-out. Even when not out in the open."

"I can't wait to get out of here," Matt agreed.

#

The last alleyway was less dirty than the first one, but still a pitiful sight. Emily and Luke observed the crowd gathered behind the crime scene tape. They looked even more miserable.

"Looks like people are really fed up," Luke commented, glancing at the crowd gathered around the crime scene.

"Can you blame them?" Emily replied.

"The murder happened this afternoon, and it took us a while to get there," Luke noted, frowning. "Did they wait here for over five hours?"

"Nothing else to do," Emily figured, shrugging.

"So, he's back to shooting victims on isolated locations?" Luke pondered, looking around.

"It isn't really that isolated," Emily pointed out, walking around. "There is a big hardware store two blocks away, and a bus station down the street." She sighed, putting her hands on her hips. "Plus, it is probably getting more and more difficult to find people out in the open. Even during the day. You gotta take what you can find. Too bad that the forensics had to remove the body though... but I understand it. They didn't want an even bigger spectacle. We may learn more at the morgue."

Luke took a few steps down the street, frowning. "Forensics found a knife here?" he remarked, taking a look at the police report and then at the crime scene photographa.

"Yup," Emily confirmed, turning to look in the same direction. "No dirt or dust on it or anything. Couldn't have been laying here for long."

"No blood on it either," Luke added. "Still, we better have forensics run it for prints and DNA." He sighed, running a had through his hair. "Garcia is still composing a list of people who have recently moved to town. Maybe we'll get lucky."

"According to the background check, Heather Adama had quite a criminal record," Emily commented. "Theft, assault, burglary..."

"Not that rare in this town," Luke figured, sighing.

"Of course. We are all just worthless scumbags to you, aren't we?"

Emily and Luke both shuddered at the sound of a booming, angry young voice, coming from behind the crime scene tape. They carefully turned in the direction of the sound. Mike was standing just an inch away from the tape, glaring at them, his hands down his pockets. Brenda was standing next to him, giving them a piercing death stare. There were several police officers near by, but they were too busy controlling the crowd getting too close to the tape, and trying to record the investigation with their phones.

"That's not what we said," Luke pointed out, trying to sound as polite and calm as possible.

"No, but I know what you meant," Mike maintained, raising his voice. "And I know why this town is such a hopeless hellhole. How do you pigs sleep at night?!"

"We are just here to help," Emily said softly, taking a reluctant step closer. "That's all. We understand..."

"I'm sick of all of this!" Brenda cried. "People getting shot to death in broad daylight, four murders per week and raising, even trucking companies are pulling out due to all the murders going in, women getting gang-raped in McDonald's restrooms, our school paper has an obituary section, and guess what, I am not happy anymore!"

Finally, one of the police officers approached Mike and Brenda, a stern look on his face. "Hey!" he yelled, glaring at them both. "Step aside and shut up!"

Mike and Brenda glared at the officer, but didn't say anything. They took a few steps back, but then they turned to face Emily and Luke again. "This won't end well, feds," Brenda said, her face pale, a bitter, uncanny smile playing on her lips. "This whole place is one giant powder keg. Has been for years. Because of you. You're no help. Just a spark. You'll see."

The police officer walked over to them again, brandishing his nightstick. "OK, that's it. Beat it! Both of you!"

Mike and Brenda shot one last glare at Emily and Luke, then turned around and walked away. Emily and Luke watched them leave, feeling everyone else in the crowd now glare at them too. Including police officers.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: I don't own any of the "Criminal Minds" characters and I am not making any money from writing this.**

 **Please forgive any minor spelling or grammar mistakes, English is not my native language.**

 **I really apologize for not updating this story sooner. I've had a lot of work to do, and I sort of hit a writer's block with this one. But I'm back now. I hope you will enjoy this chapter.**

 **Though that probably doesn't matter, I kind of imagine Veronica Heathridge, the mayor, being portrayed by Kristen Bell or Carrie Wiita.**

JJ looked at the crime scene photograph one more time before looking up at the deserted dusty field she was standing in. The place where the second victim's, Michael Gray's body, was found. The location looked pretty much the same way it had a month ago, only with even more trash laying around. The large, dark hole stood in the center of the field, covered-and surrounded-with ashes and dirt. The whole area reeked of charred coal and mud.

"Judging by the drag marks and blood trail on the ground, the unsub dragged Michael Gray's body from his truck and into this hole, then covered it with coal dust and dirt," David noted, frowning. "Why would she take the time to do that?"

"To hide the body, delay the discovery," JJ suggested. "And as a forensic countermeasure. In order to contaminate the evidence."

David shook his head. "She didn't do that to any of the other victims. And she didn't even push the body that deep in the ditch. It could be an additional way of degrading the victim though. But it appears to be more than that. Almost like some kind of compulsion... or a message." He looked around, running a hand through his hair. "Maybe the unsub has some kind of connection to the local industry, like we suspected. She could have been a blue-collar worker at some point. Or her parents were. Heck, she might have worked at this very mine at some point."

JJ nodded her head, considering that theory. "The Crossroads' industry has been dying for years. I'm surprised there is anything left by this point. They mostly rely on trucking industry in order to get by. If the unsub, or her parents, were laid off, that might explain her becoming a prostitute. Desperate times, desperate means. No wonder she couldn't resist. I'm sure she's still furious about her personal downfall."

"But if that is the case, why go after the truckers?" David wondered.

"They are known to frequent prostitutes," JJ pointed out. "Maybe one of them victimized her at some point, which caused her to direct her rage at them. And then she snapped. It might even be one of the truckers that she already murdered. Crimes like that often go unreported."

"Not to mention, all four victims were robbed," David added. "And truckers are among few people in this town that still make some money. By legal means, anyway. Ideal targets for a financially motivated unsub. Especially a prostitute. They pick her up willingly, drive her to an isolated location, let their guard down, take their clothes off..." He stopped for a moment, reconsidering his theory. "Though, to be fair, these murders seem too brutal, too personal to be solely financially motivated. Don't forget, there is a torture element to these murders too. Robbery seems more like an afterthought, a crime of convenience."

"Correct," JJ agreed. "Though poverty can be pretty infuriating. And working as a prostitute has got to be stressful and humiliating, especially in this town. With all these prostitute murders going on, no less."

"Those murders might have been the trigger," David theorized, pacing around.

JJ nodded her head, her eyes widening. "Kind of eerie. One serial killer triggering another."

David shrugged. "It was bound to happen eventually. I believe that is called the Ripple effect."

"More like a Ripper effect," JJ couldn't resist. She and JJ laughed, despite the circumstances.

"Garcia is compiling a list of convicted prostitutes, that also have a history of violence and mental issues," JJ reasoned, studying the area. "Maybe something will turn up. I'll also have her pull up the latest former employees of this mine, and cross- reference two lists, just in case. She should also look into non-fatal attacks on truckers that might have taken place recently. Vandalism, robbery, assault, theft..."

"Of course, it is also possible we are not looking for an actual prostitute, with a record for solicitation, but somebody posing as one in order to gain access to the victims," David pointed out.

JJ sighed and took another look around, a confused look on her face. "The murder sites are all isolated locations, miles apart, none of them are close to train stations or bus stops. The victims and the unsub get here in the victim's truck, the unsub kills them and leaves their trucks here... how does she flee the scene? Does she just walk for miles? Presumably covered with blood?"

"She must be chosing the locations in advance," Rossi pointed out. "It can't be a coincidence that all murder sites have some kind of connection to the Crossroads' dying industry. Then she makes a suggestion and somehow convinces the victims to take here there. That way, she can park her car near by in advance. And then later, after killing the victim, she just hops in and drives away. Of course, that still doesn't explain how does she leave the first time, after parking her getaway car near by."

"You think she might have an accomplice?" JJ suggested. "Somebody that she calls to come pick her up? Or somebody lying in wait the whole time? Her pimp, maybe?"

"I doubt any pimp would tolerate this," David objected. "Dead johns and police attention are bad for business. The unsub is obviously an independent working girl."

"Unless the pimp is getting something out of this too," JJ reasoned. "Those guys gotta be pretty messed up as well. And all four victims were robbed."

David shook his head. "I don't know. It just sounds too complicated, too messy. But I will call Garcia and have her look into cab companies and ride-sharing services around here, just in case. And look for car thefts and carjackings that might have happened around the time of the murders, close to the crime scenes," Rossi decided, already pulling out his phone.

#

Katya Kholod rolled her eyes and shamelessly blew cigarette smoke into the agents' faces, before speaking up, her thick accent echoing through the room: "Listen, take a quick look around and then let the cops take the body away, OK? I need to work. It's not my fault that some stupid little ho got killed in my motel."

Matt glared at her, but kept his cool. "We need to talk to you first..."

"I already told everything I knew to those two detectives," Katya protested.

"You say that a guy and a girl, the former being dressed like a prostitute..." Spencer proceeded, ignoring Katya's objection.

"Like a whore," Katya corrected him, a disgusted look on her face.

"... booked a room number 40 this afternoon," Spencer concluded. "Three hours later, the maid noticed some blood on the room door and went inside to check things out. The girl was dead, lying face up on the bed, and the guy was gone."

"And this is the guy's name," Katya concluded, pointing at the open guest book on the counter.

Matt and Spencer immediately looked at the guest log, their faces falling. "Peter Vacher," Spencer read with disgust. "Clearly an alias. Probably derived from the names of two notorious serial killers: Peter Sutcliffe aka Yorkshire Ripper, who murdered thirteen prostitutes by bludgeoning them with a hammer and/or stabbing them to death, and Joseph Vacher, late 19th century French serial killer that would rape, stab and mutilate young shepherds."

"You think we're looking for a copycat?" Matt pondered.

Spencer shook his head. "No, the M.O.s are too different, even though Sutcliffe's fits the bill closer than Vacher's in this case. But the unsub clearly identifies with them and admires them, to an extent. Possibly a true crime buff."

"I'm assuming he also paid cash?" Matt asked, looking up at Katya.

"Yeah," Katya confirmed, nodding her head. "Those pigs made me take the bills out of the cash register and hand them over. Said they needed to process them for prints and shit. Even though I told them the guy had been wearing gloves."

"Can you described the man that booked the room?" Spencer inquired.

Katya shrugged, taking another long, deep smoke. "White. About 5'9, 5'10. Had a blue baseball cap and black leather jacket on. Black leather gloves over his hands too. Kept looking down at the floor."

"Have you ever seen him before?" Matt probed, looking Katya in the eyes.

"I don't think so," Katya replied tiredly.

"Maybe a cognitive interview would refresh your memory," Spencer suggested politely.

"I don't know what that is, I don't want it, and I don't have time for it," Katya shut him down dismissively, annoyance evident in her voice.

"Come to think of it, where were you today between nine and twelve am?" Matt inquired, looking her in the eyes.

Katya shrugged. "Mostly on the phone with some New Hampshire prick. Business related. Didn't end up so well."

Matt frowned, raising his eyebrows. "Care to elaborate?"

Katya stared daggers at him, but still answered, quite calmly: "I needed new mattresses for the motel. Check my phone records, call the guy yourself. I'm sure he remembers me. He better," she concluded, a look of derision on her face as she put the cigarette back in her mouth.

"And if we have someone look into your establishment, nothing shady will turn up, true?" Matt insisted, maintaining an eye contact.

"Define shady," Katya retorted, grinding her teeth. "You know what kind of town this is, right?"

"Answering question with another question," Spencer chimed in, smirking. "Not suspicious at all."

Katya looked up for a moment, pouting. "I'm sure you will learn about several overdoses, few rapes, numerous armed robberies, two suicides... none of which were my fault," she recounted, matter of factly. "I was actually a victim more than once. That's in the reports too."

"OK, how about you?" Spencer tried. "Any skeletons in your tobacco-stained personal closet?"

"I killed three guys, sure," Katya admitted casually. When she was met with stunned looks from Spencer and Matt, she groaned. "In self-defense, of course."

"At the same time...?" Spencer questioned, frowning at her.

"No," Katya answered just as calmly, shaking her head.

"I can tell you're from Russia," Spencer pointed out softly, his eyes meeting Katarina's.

Katya sighed, shooting him a glare. "Geez, you're smart. My parents moved to Crossroads in 1987, searching for a better life. American dream and all. I was an infant back then. They had four good years. Put everything they owned into our new family home, and this motel. Four good years, followed by a quarter century of Hell."

"Raskoljnikov inn... peculiar name," Spencer commented.

"Crime and Punishment is one hell of a book," Katya explained. "And my father was a literature/Russian professor back in Moscow."

"Are these security cameras legit, or just for show?" Matt questioned, looking around.

Katya gave him an annoyed look. "I've been robbed three times this year alone. You can bet your government-loving ass that all these cameras work. And I already handed the surveillance tapes over to our pigs." She took another big smoke, glaring at both Matt and Spencer. "Now examine the room or whatever, do your thing. But make it quick. You've wasted enough of my time already. Plus, we don't like your kind around here."

#

Matt and Spencer grimaced, taking a good, long look around the crime scene. The victim's body was still sprawled on the bed, sheets and pillows soaked with blood. Her face was so badly bludgeoned that she was nearly unrecognizable. Her flesh was beaten, torn and ruptured, her jaw was almost entirely dislocated, her teeth knocked out and scattered across the room, and even her eyes had burst due to the vicious attack. She was completely naked, stab wounds and cuts evident on her breasts and abdomen. Her legs were spread, her arms pulled up above her head. The entire bed frame and the surrounding walls were covered with blood. There were even some blood splatters on dirty, wrinkled blue drapes, pulled over the near by window. The radio on the bedside table was still turned on, rock music blasting. The place was ransacked: sheets and pillows scattered around, drawers pulled open, the carpet kicked across the room, the closet wide open. Smeared blood everywhere. The room reeked of sweat, cigarettes, beer... and death.

"The unsub really did a number on her," Matt commented, sighing. "Took his time too. He is definitely escalating. And he sure hates these victims. I'm surprised the detectives were able to identify her based on her ID."

"She has a cobra tattoo on the side of her neck, that matches to the one on her ID photo," Spencer noticed. "They will still run her fingerprints, just in case."

"Poor girl..." Matt commented, looking away.

"He made sure to pose the body in a demeaning way too, meant to shock," Spencer noted before walking over and carefully turning the radio off, taking a closer look at the body in the process. "Legs spread, arms pulled up over her head."

Matt frowned, looking around. "Chose the right room too. In the very back of the motel, thick walls, and the only window is overlooking an abandoned building across the street."

"The music probably helped too," Spencer added. "I also see bind marks on her wrists. And some tearing around her mouth. The unsub probably bound and gagged her as well, though he made sure to take the binds with him. And I doubt that most of the guests staying in this motel would bother calling 911 anyway. Even if they heard someone screaming for their life, over and over again."

"Still, this is quite a good pick," Matt insisted. "The unsub might have staked the place out, maybe even staid at the motel at some point in the past, although the owner claims she didn't recognize him."

"Good idea," Spencer admitted. "We should take the guest book with us, and have Garcia check older credit card records. Not to mention surveillance tapes from around the motel, not just inside. And older security footages from here. This room is a mess. The unsub had some serious rage to let out. But there is smeared blood on most of these items. Meaning that the victim either fought back in the middle of the torture, and there was a struggle... or the unsub trashed the room either in the midst of-or after-the murder. Why would he do that?"

"I get that the unsub wanted the privacy to do... this," Matt reasoned. "He didn't want to risk pulling this off out there, in an alleyway. But why risk going to a motel instead? Why not do it at his own house? Most of the prostitutes would likely agree to follow him to there, if he paid enough."

"Maybe he didn't want to bother with the clean-up, and/or risk transporting the body to a different location in order to dispose of it," Spencer suggested. "Or he doesn't live alone. He could be married, for all we know. Though there are plenty of abandoned buildings and factories in this town." He frowned, remaining silent for a moment. "Of course, it is also possible that murder in this motel is some kind of message. Or a payback. Possibly both."

Matt gave him a questioning look. "You think that the unsub has something against the owner?"

Spencer shrugged. "In a town like this, it is probably easy to make enemies. That may also explain why the unsub demolished the room after the murder."

"Well, Katya didn't mention anything like that," Matt reasoned, looking around. "You think she's holding out on us? She clearly doesn't trust the FBI."

"Nobody in this town does," Spencer pointed out. "Though it is also possible that she honestly can't recall any major altercation. I'll have the local precinct provide her with police protection, just in case." He frowned, turning around. "There is some smeared blood on the bathroom door. It looks like the unsub headed there after murdering the victim, or at least at some point during the torture."

"To clean up, probably," Matt figured.

He and Spencer exchanged a look, before heading toward the bathroom, careful not to disturb the blood splatter evidence. The bathroom was pretty small, ten square feet at most. There was a sink to the left, with a small bathroom cabinet above it, a toilet near by, and a small shower stall to the right. Most of the itinerary was covered with thin layer of dust, drops of water and soap stains. The sink was pretty clean though, almost spotless. Sheer contrast to the rest of the bathroom; and smeared blood on the floor, under the sink.

"They need a new maid," Spencer commented while gritting his teeth, feeling his stomach turn.

"The sink looks pretty clean," Matt pointed out. "Though there is smeared blood underneath. The unsub probably took his bloody clothes off, dumped them on the floor, cleaned himself up in the sink, put the new clothes on..."

"He cleaned up the sink so well, but didn't even bother with the blood underneath it," Spencer noted, frowning. "Or the rest of the crime scene, actually."

After a moment of hesitation, Spencer walked over to the sink, leaned forward and inhaled sharply, disgusted look on his face. He moved away after a moment, as quickly as possible, actually gagging a little, his face pale.

"Vomit smell," he revealed through clenched teeth. "Somebody threw up in here, recently. He cleaned it up well enough, but the stench remains."

"The unsub?" Matt wondered. "This murder was more brutal than the rest, but he's gotta be used to violence and blood by now. Do you think he was drunk? Or on drugs? Unless he just happened to have a bad breakfast taco today."

"It is possible," Spencer agreed. "Or he could be experiencing some kind of murderous frenzy."

Two profiles exchanged a look and sighed, stepping away from the sink.

#

Emily Prentiss and detective Corey Meadows had to knock three times before the occupant opened the door. They decided it was better not to introduce themselves beforehand. They also decided Luke would return to the precinct, while Emily would bring a local detective over to interrogate the town's gang leader. The head of the notorious Homicide Street Killers. They finally came face to face with a young woman, dressed in a tight white tank top and ripped jeans, supported by a black leather belt with spikes on. She also had two black tear drop tattoos right under her right eye. They instantly recognized her as Jessica Streaker, the girl from the police files. For her part, Jessica glared at them, immediately noticing their guns and badges, her lips instantly twisting into a snarl.

"What's up?" she asked, her voice deep and hoarse.

"Captain Corey Meadows and SSA agent Emily Prentiss," they introduced themselves, flashing their badges as they eyed Jessica carefully. She didn't appear to be armed. However, there were obviously several other women in the house, and they couldn't see them clearly from the doorway.

Jessica shifted in place, gritting her teeth. "You have some nerve, showing up here," she spat out, her deep brown eyes burning through them. "Not only in this town alone, but at my own house no less."

"You mean your gang lair?" Corey retorted, glaring right back at her.

"Watch your mouth," Jessica snapped back, taking a sudden step closer, clenching her fists as she did.

"Do something stupid, and you're going to die of an instant lead overdose," Emily warned Jessica, looking her in the eyes. "We just want to ask you a few questions. You can either risk everything right now, or let us in for a few minutes and cooperate. Your choice."

Jessica rolled her eyes and groaned, but then stepped aside and let them in. Emily and Corey made their way inside slowly, carefully, looking around as they did, ready to pull out their weapons at the slightest provocation. There was a big couch in the centre of the room, a coffee table in front of it, a leather armchair near by, and the TV set in the opposite end of the room. Two young women, no older than 25, were sitting next to each other on the house, watching a baseball game on a wide plasma TV. The third one was in the near by kitchen, grabbing a beer from the refrigerator. They were all dressed in a similar fashion to Jessica, and they all had at least one tear drop tattoo. They regarded the law enforcement with an obvious scorn, bordering on a full-blown rage.

Jessica sighed and sat down on the armchair, seemingly calmer now.

"This is sugar powder, in case you're wondering," she said, barely withholding a smirk as she gestured at the white powder on the coffee table.

"We don't care about that," Corey cut her off, beyond annoyed already. "We care about the guy that got shot a month ago, few blocks away from your street."

Jessica frowned, raising her eyebrows. "My street?"

"Homicide Street," Emily elaborated, pretty annoyed herself. "Drop the act, will you?"

"Homeless guy, right? I heard about it on the news. I usually don't keep track of such cases. In Crossroads, who has the time? But that one was special. He was the first victim killed by that sniper guy, the serial killer, right?" She sighed, leaning back in the armchair. "You don't think me and my friends had anything to do with that, right? You know we're not like that."

"Yeah, you only shoot people after robbing or raping them, often times both," Corey probed, staring daggers at her.

Jessica just smirked in return. "You seem to have confused me with somebody else, sir."

"Your slimy games and lies aside, you have admitted to spending a lot of time in the surrounding area," Emily reminded her. "What we would like to know is this: in the days prior to that murder, did you or your girlfriends notice anything strange or suspicious there? Some shady guy lurking about, a strange car driving around? Red Sedan or a blue SUV, maybe?"

Jessica smiled, crossing her legs. "If we had, we would have called it in right away. Or at least after we learned about the murder."

"And by that you mean, you would have tracked down the perpetrator by yourselves, and administered your own brand of justice," Corey accused her, disgusted. "But that is not the case, because the bodies keep dropping."

"Which, of course, doesn't mean that you're not trying," Emily pointed out, giving Jessica a long, probing look.

Jessica seemed to flinch for a moment, but she soon regained her composure, chuckling heartily. "You're making it sound like we're some kind of criminal organization," she taunted, a smug look on her face. Then she sighed, her face suddenly serious. "It's called safety in numbers, geniuses. How do you think young women feel living in a town like this? As you must remember, this was my sister's idea. Back in 2002. Greta Streaker, remember her? I was only fourteen at the time. We focused on Homicide Street because my classmate was raped and murdered there that year. A year after my mother was shot to death there. Mugging gone wrong. Both of those cases are still unsolved, by the way. Not that can explain any of that herself, since you shot her down back in '10. Leaving me to pick up the pieces. And I daresay that I've done a pretty good job. But maybe that's just too much for you to handle."

"I remember all of that," Corey replied, barely controlling his anger. "I also remember that it took you girls six months to go from "protection group" to "selling crack cocaine to teenagers". I also remember the first body that you put on the autopsy table. A 12-year-old boy. I remember that one really well. That's seventeen years of your motherfucking bullshit. And speaking of how rough this town is, I had to deal with all that for way longer, and much more, than your lying, thieving, murdering, coke-snorting, STD-ridden hoodlum ass."

Several tense, nauseating moments passed. Jessica and her friends stared daggers at Corey (and, occasionally, at Emily), their fists clenched, faces forming into a grimace. They looked like they were ready to murder him, right then and there. Brutally. Him and Emily. But they didn't say anything, they didn't even move. And Corey just stared back at them, his face flushed, his breathing deep and uneven. Emily just stood near by, looking at the gangbangers and then back at the detective, her heart pounding in her chest, her hand slowly sliding from the holster down to the butt of the gun. When Corey finally took a step back and reached into his pocket, Jessica and the other girls moved towards him, and one of them reached into her jeans. Emily gripped her service weapon, her heart skipping a beat. But Corey merely pulled out his wallet, and the girls soon stopped in their tracks, their arms falling to their sides. Emily let out a silent sigh of relief, but kept her hand on her gun.

"Whatever you're planning to do to that guy, don't," Corey advised them, suddenly calm and collected again. "And if you happen to know anything about him, call us," he added, pulling his calling card out of his wallet. "Anonymously, if you must. For once in your life, don't do anything stupid."

Jessica still glared at him, her eyes burning through his, her fists clenched. But she did take the card, without saying a word. Corey glared back at her, one last time, then turned around and walked away. Emily followed after him, both of them still keeping their hand on a holster. They could feel Jessica and the other girls looking after them, dissecting them with their eyes. But nothing happened.

"Well, that didn't turn out so well," Emily commented, sighing as she and Corey made their way toward their car.

Corey glanced at her, raising his eyebrows. "You're blaming me, right?" he concluded more than asked. However, there was no anger or even annoyance in his voice.

"Well... to be completely fair, you didn't exactly put them at ease, make them want to cooperate," Emily admitted as John unlocked the car.

"Did it seem like they wanted to cooperate?" Corey retorted, taking the driver's seat. "You read the file on them, right?"

"All criminals are like that," Emily pointed out, though she did see Corey's point. "You still gotta make do."

"Well, if you worked here as long as I have, you would know what I'm talking about," Corey concluded, putting the seat belt on. "And you would be sick and tired of their bs too."

"Then why did you agree to come over?" Emily wondered, frowning. "To make sure I was safe, or...?"

Corey smirked, starting the car. "To see them squirm and fume once they learn that the FBI is in town. And so I could tell them to burn in Hell."

#

Spencer and Matt would look around every few seconds, constantly feeling like somebody would show up and launch at them any second. They had to knock twice before the scruffy, bearded middle-aged man, dressed in a faded, worn-out house coat, mustard-stained tank top and blue shorts opened the door, immediately glaring at them.

"Who the hell are you?" the resident spat out, though he clearly noticed their guns and badges right away.

"SSA agents Reid and Simmons," they introduced themselves, flashing their badges. "Are you Brandon River?"

Brandon smirked, tilting his head to the side. "One and only." He shifted in place, seemingly withholding a chuckle. "The feds, back in Crossroads. Now I've seen everything."

"We just arrived in town this morning," Spencer explained, taking a cautious look around. "We would like to ask you a few questions."

Brandon grinned, leaning against the doorway. "You, the feds, managed to survive an entire day in here?" he exclaimed more than questioned. "I gotta admit, that's pretty impressive. How many people did you have to kill?"

"None," Matt answered calmly, giving him a stern look. "So far. Would you mind letting us in, please?"

Brandon frowned, straightening himself up. "Hold on a second. What's all this about?"

"We have to question you in regards to the serial murders that have been happening here," Spencer explained, looking him in the eyes.

Brandon scoffed. "Which one?"

"The ones involving prostitutes," Matt clarified. "We've been going through the police files and your name came up."

"Well, more like stood out," Spencer couldn't help but clarify.

Brandon's face fell, but he remained calm. "I already talked to the local police," he pointed out.

"We know," Matt agreed, albeit still adamant. "You also failed to provide an alibi for any of the murders, and refused to let the detectives search your house."

"And they still don't have a sufficient basis for a search warrant," Brandon reminded him, rather proudly.

"But they do have us," Spencer retorted, taking a step closer.

Brandon snickered, glaring at him. "What do you have that they don't?"

"We're profilers," Spencer replied, eying him suspiciously. "We study human behavior. And you're looking increasingly suspicious by a second," he concluded, taking another step closer.

Brandon sighed, staring back at Spencer for a few moments. Eventually he muttered something and stepped aside. "Make it quick, OK?" he mumbled, letting them in.

#

Within a minute, they were sitting in Brandon's living room, on a scuffed, pretty dusty sofa. Spencer shuddered, wishing to get out of that house as soon as possible. But he knew that he couldn't show any weakness. Brandon was sitting in his armchair, opposite to them. The living room led directly into the kitchen, that basically consisted of an old, barely functioning refrigerator, greasy stove and cracked dishwasher on the left, and a squeaky kitchen table with only one chair at it to the right, next to the opened pantry door. The pantry was clearly crammed up. The toolbox was laying on the floor next to it, apparently having been pushed out by the pile of cloths and papers. The kitchen patio was no better, being covered with dirty dishes and napkins. There was a kitchen knife set in the corner, and another one on the kitchen table.

"So, you were home alone on all of those nights?" Matt started, deciding to look into the suspect's alibi-well, a lack of thereof-once again.

"Yup," Brandon confirmed, nodding his head. "I live alone, and I'm lonely." He smirked, leaning back in his seat. "Guilty."

"You follow the news about those murders?" Matt asked.

Brandon shrugged. "Not those murders in particular. I happen to hear about those cases on TV or read about them in the newspaper. But after a while they all sort of merge together. I do happen to be a bit more... aware of these because I was interrogated about them."

"Multiple times," Spencer pointed out.

Brandon grinned. "That's how desperate they were for leads."

"You don't have a girlfriend?" Spencer asked, ignoring his remark. "Any close friends?"

"Drinking buddies," Brandon answered readily. "But they usually don't stay at my place. I prefer it that way."

"According to the police report, when they first questioned you, you owned a black minivan. I don't see it anywhere. What happened to it?"

Brandon shrugged. "Somebody stole it. Three weeks ago."

"Did you report it?"

"Yeah. But I'm not holding my breath."

"Have you ever hanged around, frequented those neighborhoods?" Matt inquired.

Brandon frowned. "Those neighborhoods?"

"Where the murders happened," Matt elaborated. "If you have, maybe you saw something suspicious. You might remember something that could help us."

"No," Brandon answered readily. "I stay away from such places."

"Due to your criminal record?" Spencer probed, looking him in the eyes again.

Brandon smirked, nodding his head. "Among other things," he admitted, looking away.

"Back in 2007, you beat up a prostitute because she tried to steal your wallet," Spencer pointed out, emphasising the word "beat".

Brandon seemed completely unaffected by that observation. "Serves her right," he said, matter of factly. "As far as I'm concerned, that was self defense."

"And in 2012, you non-fatally stabbed a local prostitute," Spencer continued. "That landed you in prison for five years."

"I was drunk that night," Brandon stated, just as calmly. "But I have a feeling that was self-defense too. I don't just go around stabbing people."

"And a year ago, you were suspected of non-fatally stabbing a drug addict..." Spencer maintained, unphased by Brandon's justifications.

"But never charged due to a lack of evidence," Brandon concluded, grinning at him.

"You seem to have an excuse for everything," Spencer challenged, raising his eyebrows.

"If you were in my position, you'd have plenty too."

Spencer straightened himself up a bit, carefully observing Brandon's kitchen, focusing on the pantry area especially. He waited for a few moments before speaking up. "You're a handyman?" he questioned, his eyes trained on the toolbox.

Brandon briefly glanced in Spencer's direction before turning toward the agents again. "I used to be an engineer," he explained, rather blandly. "Now I'm on a welfare. This is just for house repairs."

"Two sets of knives too," Spencer noted, just as persistent.

Brandon smiled. "Just in case."

"Can we take a look at it?" Matt tried.

Brandon glared at him. "The toolbox or the knives?"

"Both," Matt clarified, just as confident.

Brandon frowned, shifting in his seat. "Do you have a warrant?"

"You already know an answer to that question," Matt argued.

"I sure do," Brandon agreed. "And that is why I would like you to leave now."

Spencer and Matt looked back at him, but knew they were on his property and had no basis to hold him.

#

Spencer and Matt exchanged a look as they headed back to their car, a look of disappointment on their faces.

"I don't know... I don't like him for this," Spencer admitted, shaking his head. "He barely even flinched when I noticed the toolbox. Not to mention, he left it out in the open. Even if the murder weapons weren't inside... that just doesn't fit."

"Plus, he also had two different knife sets in his home," Matt added, clearly agreeing with Spencer. "And out of three violent crimes he committed or was suspected of, two involved stabbing. It seems more likely that he would stab his victims to death if he escalated to murder, rather than stabbing them to death."

"The body language doesn't fit either. He answered all of our questions straight away, didn't inquire about the investigation, and maintained an eye contact."

Matt sighed as he and Spencer got into the car, immediately fastening their seatbelts. "So, one suspect successfully eliminated... the rest of the town to go."

#

Luke frowned as he took a closer look at one of the drive-by shooting victims' dead bodies, laying on the autopsy table. The M.E. observed him, shaking his head.

"I don't know what to tell you," he admitted, letting out a heavy sigh. "All the victims were shot in the head and chest area, from medium or wide range. That's it. The only exception is the latest victim, that was shot in the abdomen and chest. I haven't performed an autopsy on her yet. The same weapon was used each time. There was no close contact between the victim and the killer. And only three are still here, the rest have been buried or cremated by now."

Luke moved over to the other autopsy table, and took a closer look at the body of Michael Davis, security guard shot in front of the hospital. He frowned, focusing on Michael's chest wound. "There are barely any powder burns around this wound," he noted, looking up at the M.E. "At all. And the bullet didn't penetrate that deep, though it still severed the artery, causing the victim to bleed out. From what distance was the victim shot?"

The M.E. frowned, scratching his head. "Kind of hard to determine. From what I've read, there were no witnesses that time, and the shell casing wasn't found," he said, flipping through his notes on the near by desk. "But judging by the lack of any powder burns and the depth of the wound, I'd say... from thirty feet away, at least."

Luke frowned, thinking about that information carefully, pondering all case details in his head. "So, from thirty feet away," he reasoned. "Kill shot to the heart. In a drive-by shooting. The unsub isn't just experienced and well-trained, he is exceptional," he concluded, looking away. "It wouldn't surprise me if he had military background."

"Or he could be a hunter," the M.E. suggested, raising his eyebrows. "Really experienced one, but still. There are plenty of deep, dark woods around here. Mostly at the edge of town, but either way... this is Indiana, after all."

"All the hunters are licensed, right?" Luke questioned, a curious look on his face.

The M.E. nodded his head. "They should be. We're not completely like Wild West. Both the police and the town's administration office should have those records. But you should know that poaching is pretty common around here. Like all the other types of crimes."

Luke nodded his head, frowning. "Maybe we should sent out a search party to canvass the surrounding woods," he whispered, taking another look at the body. "Who knows what they might find."

"Good luck with that."

#

Spencer was alone in the workroom, sitting on the chair positioned close to the board covered with crime scene photographs and forensic reports. His eyes were trained on a small, portable TV on the near-by table. It was five pm, and the local news were on. The anchor was a pale, dark-haired man in his 40s, dressed surprisingly casually given the circumstances; blue T-shirt and black sweatpants. He took a sip of water and glanced at the piece of paper laying on the table in front of him before looking up at the camera, his eyes tired and dull. His voice was hoarse and monotone.

"Good afternoon. No time for context this time, too much crap going on too fast and all over the town, and our editor got killed this morning, but they do say that a picture tells a thousand words. So here we go." He stared blankly at the camera for a second or two before speaking up. "Early this morning, on the Drive-By Avenue, this happened."

A photohraph appeared on the screen, in the upper left corner. It showed a dead body of a young, red-haired woman, dressed in a white blouse. Her body was floating face-up in a lake, her eyes dull and lifeless, as well as bloodshot. A wide, purple ligature mark was clearly visible on her long slender neck.

"And an hour later, on the Rape Hill, this happened."

A different photo. This one featured a young woman's head... decapitated and placed on a stake. Her face was badly battered, covered with fresh cuts and bruises, and her eyes appeared to be gouged out.

"And two hours ago, at the Meth Corner, at McDonald's, this happened."

That vague and monotone news was followed by a photograph of a red pick-up truck, rammed into the McDonald's. It had gone right through the main window, running over the tables and chairs, sending shards of broken glass and fragments of the broken window frame all over the place. The car's windshield was in an even worse condition, its hood wrecked to grotesque levels. There were several police cars and an ambulance parked near by, but, surprisingly, no dead bodies in sight.

"Well, that wasn't there this morning."

Spencer instantly turned around, startled for a moment, and found himself face to face with Emily Prentiss. She smiled, looking up from the TV to meet his eyes.

"The local news here are quite... weird," he admitted, blushing slightly.

Emily smiled before sitting down at the table, opposite to him. "Now, why would you do that to yourself?" she asked half-jokingly.

Spencer sighed, looking away. "I decided to take a break, figured I needed a distraction. Not the best choice, in retrospect..." he admitted, chuckling for a second.

Emily frowned, looking down at the floor briefly. "I heard that the first unsub really did a number on his latest victim," she pointed out. "He could be escalating."

"That's what we're afraid of," Spencer agreed, nodding his head.

"Though that might also help us," Emily hoped, deep in thought. "Maybe he got sloppy, left DNA or a fingerprint behind. If he's in the system..."

Spencer shook his head, leaning back in his seat. "To be fair, I suspect that the crime labs around here are quite... busy, even with the serial killer cases presumably being given the top priority."

"We are sort of fighting a losing battle, aren't we?" Spencer suddenly said, turning to face Emily.

Emily frowned, shifting in her seat. "What do you mean?"

Spencer sighed, clasping his hands. "I mean, for these three guys, that we will catch eventually, there are dozens no better than them, ready to take their place. Probably not serial killers per se, but still... I mean, last year alone, more people were killed in this town, in isolated incidents, than these three unsubs have murdered so far combined."

Emily remained silent for a while. "Well, it's not like leaving these three nutjobs out there would make things any better..."

"Of course not," Spencer agreed, dismissing her objection. "It's just... I don't know. When I heard that the Crossroads PD called us in, finally, I hoped to get some sort of... perspective, to truly understand why this town is like this... and how and why the residents put up with it. But I'm starting to think that there is no better answer... and that the town is beyond salvation."

"Well, I certainly hope it's not."

Now both Spencer and Emily were startled, suddenly finding themselves in the company of fit, pixie-haircut blonde woman in her 30s, dressed in black tank top, red leather jacket and tight jeans.

"Who are you?" Emily blurted out, giving the visitor a careful look-over.

"That's Veronica Heathridge, the mayor," Spencer explained, still surprised.

Veronica smiled, turning towards him. "Very good... pal," she exclaimed, indicating that she didn't know-or didn't remember-his name.

"SSA Spencer Reid," Spencer quickly introduced himself, while Emily went to shake Veronica's hand. "This is Emily Prentiss, the unit chief. I recognized your face from the newspapers. I have an eidetic memory so it's not weird." He nodded his head, silent for a moment. "You know, we once caught the unsub named James Heathridge," he couldn't help but mention, his eyes meeting Veronica's.

Veronica frowned. "The unsub?"

"Serial killer," Spencer clarified, matter-of-factly. Words came out before he could stop them. It was almost like some sort of reflex. "Delusional. His mother was a paranoid schizophrenic. She stabbed her fellow actresses because she believed they were the Devil's wives, after her baby daughter. Then she went home and cut off her baby daughter's arm in order to make her less appealing to the Devil. The daughter, the unsub's sister, survived, while the mother was placed in a mental institution. She burned it down in 1996, killing herself and several other patients. Children were raised by their grandfather in that old big mansion, called the Heathridge Manor. In 2012, their grandfather died of natural set James off. He would abduct women that he believed were the Devil's wives, after his sister. He would waterboard them in the basement. If they survived, that, in his mind, meant that they were witches, trying to make his sister the Devil's bride. Then he would kill them by dressing them in nicotine-soaked dresses. He eventually tried to kill his sister too, in order to rule the Devil out and we killed him. But we got to their house in time and killed him instead. James, I mean."

Veronica just stared back at him for a while and then nodded, somehow successful at suppressing a need to cringe. "How lovely," she whispered, every letter dripping with sarcasm, before turning to face Emily, her voice stern and determined when she spoke up. "Detective Meadows told me I could find you here. And, just to put it out there right away, it's urgent." She turned to face Spencer again. "And I am not related to James Heathridge in any way, in case you're interested."

"We noticed," Emily replied, unimpressed. "That it's urgent, I mean."

"Me too," Veronica agreed, without missing a beat. "People are on the edge. Even more than usual, I mean. That's why I decided to call in a town's meeting. Tomorrow, at the town's hall. I'm going to address the public, hold the speech, listen to their concerns, all the usual crap. But I want you to be there too. I hope I can count on you."

Emily frowned, leaning over. "Is this blood on your jeans?"

Veronica just waved her hand dismissively. "Oh, that's nothing, just some car bombing on the way here. Don't worry, it's not mine, I was too far away. So, can I count on you?"

A short silence ensued. Emily and Spencer exchanged a look. "You think the public will be... OK with FBI agents addressing the situation?" Emily questioned.

"No," Veronica stated, rather bluntly. "As a matter of fact, I expect them to hate your guts. But that will distract them from me."

Emily grimaced, a look of realization appearing on her face. "It will make you look good."

Veronica groaned, rolling her eyes. "That ship has sailed. I just hope it is enough to prevent another assassination attempt at me. And I need someone to answer all those psychology questions."

"And as for us..." Spencer inquired, giving her a probing look.

"Top security," Veronica answered, right away. "I guarantee you. I talked to Meadows. And you have bullet-proof vests, right?"

Emily and Spencer just nodded their heads. Veronica grinned.

"Town's hall," she repeated, looking at Emily and then back at Spencer. "Tomorrow. Four pm. Tell the others. Don't be late. And don't forget your guns. And the vests, of course. If you have any questions, don't hesitate to call me," she advised them before casually dropping her business card on the table, in between them. "The town's hall address is written on the bottom, in case you forget, and are too busy to use Google."

"And please tell us, why should we agree to that?" Emily couldn't help but ask, glaring at her.

Veronica glared back at her and opened her mouth, but was interrupted by Spencer. "The unsub-one of them, anyway, but maybe even more-could show up," he explained calmly. "In order to stake things out, attempt to insert himself into the investigation, or simply to gloat... We could spot him in the crowd. It is a long-shot, but still."

Veronica snickered, nodding her head in agreement."Very smart, dr. Reid." She sighed and took one last look around the workroom. "Now excuse me. I have to complete my speech, then drain a bottle of vodka and contemplate suicide. See you tomorrow... feds," she snarked at them before turning around and walking away.

Emily and Spencer looked after her, still stunned, before facing each other, awkward silence hanging in the air.

"Well, at least she was honest," Spencer finally said, before taking a big sip of coffee and turning toward the TV again.

#

Even late in the evening, the BAU was still gathered at the precinct, in their workroom. They were sitting around the cracked desk, going through the case file and their notes, sipping strong black coffee as they did. Every few minutes, someone would sigh heavily, before rubbing their eyes. Spencer was the only one still on his feet. He was standing in front of the board in the center of the room, looking down at his copy of the case file every now and then, occasionally writing something down on the town's map plastered on the center of the board, while finishing his fourth cup of coffee. Luke was sitting in the corner, watching the surveillance tapes from the motel on his tablet. Unfortunately, none of the footages revealed much. The surveillance system wasn't exactly high-tech stuff, and the unsub did a good job of keeping his face away from the security cameras. The only sounds, other than sighing, were shuffling and scuffle echoing from the rest of the precinct. And an occasional gunshot heard from the outside, usually followed by a blood-curdling scream. That, too, had become little more than a background noise by that point.

"To think that we will have to spend a night in this town," JJ commented, feeling herself shiver.

"The captain found us a hotel close to the precinct, and he will set up two police cars out front overnight," David pointed out, without looking up.

"So, as long as somebody doesn't bomb the precinct again, we're good," Tara commented dryly, rubbing her forehead.

"Garcia is looking into Robert West's gambling problem," Luke mentioned, still focused on the security footages. "No clues in his bank statements, phone records and emails-not yet, at least. But there's plenty of illegal gambling going on in Crossroads. She is looking into such activities, recently reported near home and workplace. Maybe something will turn up. I'm still not sure is that an actual lead, or just Mitch stringing us along for some reason."

"Maybe forensics will find something on Heather Davis murder scene," Tara hoped. "I still wonder about the knife found close to her body. I doubt that is a coincidence. And what was she doing there? That alley was ten miles away from her home, and she didn't own a car and was unemployed."

"I think the answer may lie in the street name," David suspected, looking up at her.

"This guy is smart, and careful," Luke admitted, his eyes glued to the screen. "Baseball cap on, keeping his face away from the cameras, gloves... The best we can determine is that the unsub is a Caucasian man, around six feet tall, strong, heavy-set. Narrows it down to around every fourth man in town. We can turn the tapes over to Garcia, have her try to enhance them and clear up, but that would be difficult to do without distorting it all."

"Garcia couldn't find anything incriminating about Katya Kholod either," Spencer remarked, still focused on the map. "And her alibi checks out. We set up a police patrol in front of her motel and house, just in case. And though I doubt there was any doubt, Garcia has also confirmed that there is not a single person in this town called Peter Vacher."

"Garcia is still looking into the motel's credit card records and phone records," Matt pointed out, shifting in his seat. "Maybe she'll find something."

"We should start visiting local firing ranges and gun stores tomorrow, see does anyone remember the guy who fits our preliminary profile of the thrill killer," David mentioned, taking a sip of coffee.

"We've sent out the warning about the trigger-happy prostitute targeting truck drivers," Tara noted. "Hopefully, that will mess up her plans. At least for a while."

"Compiling a geographic profile is close to impossible, for all of those three cases," Spencer complained, glaring at the map. "The murders are literally scattered all over the town, without any specific pattern or order."

"Garcia is still looking into car thefts and carjackings reporter close to those abandoned industry sites at around the time of the murder," Tara said, putting her tablet down. "She's looking into the local cab companies and ride-sharing services too. No leads so far. I still can't figure out how does that woman leave the crime scenes after killing her victims."

"And we still have to look into all of these men that have a criminal record for assaulting prostitutes," Emily pointed out, glaring at the stock of files on the desk. "We might have eliminated Brandon River, but there are still dozens of such creeps in this town. I can't say that I'm surprised. Local police has already ruled out some of them, since they have strong alibies for one or several of the murders, but plenty are still active suspects."

"We could narrow it down by focusing on the ones that fit the preliminary profile the most," Spencer suggested, turning to face Emily. "Tall, fit, local, between the ages of 20 and 40, works or he used to work as a handyman, owns or has an access to an SUV or a minivan."

"Good idea," Emily agreed, nodding her head. She groaned, leaning back in her seat. "On the other hand, according to Garcia's research, the only people that actually moved to here over the last three years are a guy who got locked up for dealing meth a year ago, a registered sex offender who got killed in a burglary gone wrong five months ago, and newlyweds who proceeded to move out four months later. So, we were either wrong about the third unsub being a newcomer, or he somehow managed to keep his move off the records. And there is not a single person in this entire town-other than a rent-a-car company and 50-year-old used cars salesman-who owns both a black SUV and a red Sedan, but there have been many car thefts and carjackings reported around here lately, many still unsolved, some involving those two cars," she concluded with a heavy sigh, rubbing her forehead.

Their discussion was interrupted by detective Corey Meadows, who suddenly stormed into the workroom, his face pale. "It happened again," he informed them, breathing heavily. "Twice."


End file.
